


Beware the Frozen Heart

by imatrisarahtops



Category: Frozen (2013), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Frozen Fusion, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Deductions, Disney, Evil Plans, Fairy Tale Elements, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Past Drug Use, True Love, frozenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imatrisarahtops/pseuds/imatrisarahtops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Frozenlock AU]  Prince Sherlock never understood why Mycroft decided to start locking himself away in his room one day, but he chose to believe his older brother's words that "caring is not an advantage."  When Moriarty forces King Mycroft to leave the kingdom, it is up to Sherlock to convince him to return and put a stop to Moriarty's plans.  However, when things take an icy turn, Mycroft must repair the bond with his brother, with the help of Lestrade and John.  But can Sherlock's heart really be frozen when the prince claims that he doesn't have one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Born of Cold and Winter Air

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from "Frozen Heart" from the Frozen soundtrack. There are many references to various Disney kingdoms, minor Sherlock characters, Medieval weapons and poisons/substances/"drugs".
> 
> This is not merely a rewrite of the movie with the names of Sherlock characters, but an attempt to take the overall plot of Frozen and change it to properly fit the characters, also incorporating parts of the original Sherlock plot. So I hope you enjoy what's come out of it!

Sherlock could faintly hear as Mistress Hudson called his name, off somewhere down the corridor, undoubtedly to inquire as to whether or not he was ready.  He mentally rolled his eyes at what she would say—most likely something about how the day was so _important_ and meant to be _memorable_ and it would _change things within the kingdom_.

_Hardly_.

Instead, he focused on the book that was in front of him, fingers tracing over maps and diagrams and words, committing them all to memory.  Perhaps if there was any change that did come from the day—any change that mattered, really—it would be in convincing his brother to _leave him be_ at last.  Maybe he could convince Mycroft of his deserved freedom, instead of being locked up inside of the castle like a prisoner.  If he wanted to keep _himself_ hidden away with lock and key, that hardly mattered to Sherlock—but he shouldn’t be held to the same rules.  Prince or not.

“Your highness?”  Mistress Hudson’s voice filtered through the door as she rapped on the wood.  He could hear as she huffed out a sigh.  “I know you’re in there, Sherlock!” she called, and his lips twitched as she dropped the formality, as she often did when she thought he was acting petulantly.  “You best be ready, it’s _coronation day_!”

Sherlock let out a breath and rolled his eyes at the empty room.  He was perfectly aware of the day, yet he still had no actual desire to attend the celebration.  It was his sincere hope that he’d be able to hide away in the vast library like he did most of his days.  He didn’t care for the company, and he didn’t care for pretending that today was of any importance.

He could hear the jangling outside of the room that signified that Mistress Hudson had at last fished out the set of keys she had (given to her particularly for this reason, as the one left with the responsibility that was the prince) and was finding the one that fit the lock.  After a moment he could hear the metal sliding, as the door was unlocked.  He did not even look up from his book as the heels of Mistress Hudson's shoes clicked across the floor.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she said, and he could hear the mild disapproval in her voice.  He glanced up and could see that her arms were folded over her chest.  He raised an eyebrow by way of response.  “You need to be ready for your brother’s coronation.”

“Why?” he asked stubbornly, his voice flat.

“It would mean a lot to him for you to be there,” she responded with the same simplicity.

At this, Sherlock scoffed.  The idea was ludicrous—that Mycroft could possibly care if his brother was at the celebration naming him king.  “I’m certain he’ll survive,” he told the lady evenly, though his words were clipped.  “If he can easily go months at a time without so much as a word to me, I think that he can manage without my presence for one more day before he goes back into hiding.”

Mistress Hudson tutted at this.  “ _Sherlock_ ,” she repeated, though this time the word was laced with sadness.

Instantly Sherlock snapped the book shut, leaving it on the desk to resume his consumption of information later.  At the moment, he wanted nothing to do with the woman and her _pity_.  It was positively horrid, and he couldn’t bear another second.  He pressed past her.

“And where are you headed off to _now_?” she asked exasperatedly.

“To prepare for this evening,” he snapped, not turning to look at her as he walked out of the library.  He could faintly hear her call after him once more but he ignored it, promptly making his way to his bedroom.  He shut and locked the door, satisfied that Mistress Hudson wouldn’t force her way into there as well.  Still, he settled himself onto his bed and glowered at the door for a moment, as though challenging it to open.

After a few moments, he let out a sigh of slight relief and reclined against his pillows.  He folded his hands together and rested them at his chin, his fingertips just brushing over the bottom of his lip.  He inhaled through his nose and let himself revel in the moment of peace; he knew that it would be the last moment he’d be given that day.

And it was all thanks to his giant oaf of a brother— _Mycroft_.  He couldn’t bring himself to see a legitimate reason to attend the festivities.  What had Mycroft done to show his brother that he cared for his welfare in the slightest?  Nothing of any true significance in the past fifteen years, as far as Sherlock could see; nothing that truly meant anything.

He could still remember the day when suddenly the door had become locked, and things had changed.  He’d only been six at the time, but he could still remember the stark difference between the days before and after, how Mycroft had suddenly gone from being a friend (ridiculous, Sherlock thought now, because he didn’t have or need any friends) to being a distant figure whose presence in the castle was often easy to write off or forget altogether.  Not that Sherlock ever did forget, but he could pretend that he did.

He spent a year attempting to solve the mystery, to understand why suddenly Mycroft withdrew completely from him.  Etched into his memory was the day that Mycroft finally snapped, and the fourteen-year-old prince opened the door and stared coldly at his seven-year-old brother and six words fell from his lips: “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” 

The words hadn’t hurt him; not like he had half-expected.  Instead he recoiled slightly and felt as the ice of Mycroft’s statement seeped under his skin and into his very soul.

After that, Sherlock took the implied advice and stopped caring.  He had no reason to make another attempt at The Mystery of the Locked Door.  Mycroft didn’t wish to know him anymore; it was (maybe) that simple.  (But why, why, _why_?)

However, the affection for his brother wasn’t all that had slipped away from Sherlock since then.  He pretended not to notice as his father grew steadily angrier as he drove away numerous tutors and other members of the castle staff.  Still, he saw no point in filtering the observations he made about them and their lives.  And how was it his fault if they were offended by the truth, anyway?

And as his father’s frustration with his younger son grew, Sherlock silently watched as his mother’s health declined in turn.  He knew the two weren’t correlated; it wasn’t logical, but then he’d been assured of his conclusion when his mother had only chuckled and ruffled his dark curls when he commented on the physician’s pathetic home life.

After, his father had shouted at him for being so foolish, then gone to try to convince the physician—the _best physician in the kingdom, Sherlock!_ —to return.  Once the man had left the room, his mother had looked at him with a weak smile and said, “Don’t mind him, love.  You’re _brilliant_.  You don’t need to change that.”

He supposed that he could learn to hold his tongue, as his father advised.  But then, when his mother’s last remaining bit of life had escaped her lips, he determined that it didn’t matter.  And again, his brother’s words echoed in his brain: _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_.

So at the age of twelve, Sherlock was left alone.  His mother was dead, his brother was almost constantly locked away, and his father was distant and angry.  To his credit, it was then that his father had hired Mistress Hudson to take care of him—though, Sherlock figured, this was mostly so that he didn’t have to bother with his younger son any longer.  He had more important things to concern himself with than a misbehaving prince.

It didn’t matter much to him.  Sherlock found it far easier to slip out of the castle and into the outlying town when he was under the supposedly watchful eye of Mistress Hudson.  And when the guards would finally drag him back from whatever trouble he was found causing, Mistress Hudson would forbid the guards to say a word and involve the king, and then fuss over Sherlock instead of reprimanding him.

Sherlock cared greatly for the lady, though he never verbally admitted it.  He kept his affection well-concealed, though sometimes she would smile at him knowingly.  And he supposed that if she didn’t run away, then she must care for him a bit, in return.

But where was Mycroft during this time?  Where had he been at the death of their mother?  Where had he been when their father had passed, only two years ago?  Where had he been all of those times that Sherlock felt so hollow and alone?

And Sherlock was certain that the soon-to-be king was made aware of the various states he’d been in.   He was aware that someone—most likely one of the guards who always found him when he ran off—was giving Mycroft the information.  Still, Mycroft merely stood back and (figuratively, considering his hermit-like status) watched.  Even when he had disappeared for more than three weeks, finally discovered in the outskirts of the neighboring town, abusing opium and henbane and several compounded substances that weren’t even recognizable with a few equally questionable vagabonds and beggars, Mycroft had made no physical appearance.  Instead, when the last of the constant fog that had overtaken him had cleared, he was met with a young lady, only a few years older than him.  She looked at him with gentle eyes and an expression that read disappointed, and he hated it.

What was more was his hatred that he was so familiar with the expression.

“Who are you?” he ground out impatiently, trying to sit up, but she instantly pressed him down onto his back again.

“Lay down, your highness,” she ordered.  “Your brother requested my presence.”  Her hands were gentle, not as clinical as he had initially expected.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he snapped.

Her hands froze for a moment before turning to a table beside the bed where there was an array of equipment and various bottles and jars of different colors.  “My name is Molly, my lord,” she responded, and there was something about her voice that sounded constantly unsure of herself; he wondered if she always sounded that way, or if it was merely him.  Mistress Hudson had admonished him for being such an overwhelming, intimidating presence, one that occupied such a large area in even the smallest spaces he occupied.  “I’ve been studying under another healer in the citadel—”

“A _healer_ ,” Sherlock scoffed.  He shifted himself up on his pillows slightly, already feeling restless; he wondered how long he’d been confined to his bed, while shifting in and out of consciousness since he was recovered.  Had it been days?  “I have nothing that needs to be _healed_ , so you can leave—”

“You’re wrong, my lord,” she stated shortly.  “With all respect, sire,” she added hastily and apologetically.  It nearly surprised him, however, that she managed to stood her ground as she made her declaration.  “His highness knows that you are suffering.  And, well, my father suffered much the same way.”

Sherlock huffed out a cold laugh.  “So this is an attempt at a solution?” he asked her bitterly.  “Why doesn’t _he_ do something if I’m apparently suffering so greatly?”

Molly was silent for a moment as she looked at the bottles on the table before picking up one that was an ugly murky green color.  Hesitantly she took a seat beside the bed and looked at the prince.  “I believe that yes, this is his attempt, my lord,” she said quietly, once again looking afraid that she might be overstepping her boundaries, yet still confident that she was telling the truth.  “And even if you don’t view it as an appropriate one, you must know that you are cared for greatly, sire.  You have a kingdom that looks to you, whether or not you believe it.  And there are those who would do whatever they can to help better you, regardless of that status.”

Sherlock looked at her strangely.  There was an odd comfort in her words, though a stubborn part of his mind questioned what _she_ knew—just a young healer, one who hadn’t spent more than a quarter hour with him—at least, while he was conscious.  Surely her words bore no actual meaning.  And it didn’t matter, anyway.  He didn’t need anyone; he may not be necessarily content with it, but he had accepted that he would always be alone.

“I don’t need _pity_ or _sympathy_ ,” he told her coldly.  “I don’t need anyone.”

Her eyes looked increasingly sad at this, and she looked down at her lap, shaking her head minutely.  Still, she did not argue as she poured a small amount of the horrible-looking liquid with its molasses-like consistency into a tiny wooden cup and handed it to him.  She had ensured he drank it in its entirety before leaving the room silently.

It had been a year, and still Molly had stayed.  He supposed that was Mycroft’s doing, as well; probably another way to keep an eye on Sherlock without any actual interaction.

And still the question burned his insides: _why_?  According to Molly and Mistress Hudson, Mycroft _cared_ (in some strange, distant way, if it was true), so _why_ was he so determined to stay so far back?  Was it only a sense of duty?  Was it merely determined pride, so that the rest of the kingdom wouldn’t know what his irresponsible brother got into?  Why was Mycroft doing _any_ of this?

Sherlock let out a disgruntled noise and swung his legs over the side of his bed, forcing himself up.  Mistress Hudson had tried to convince him that the sooner he got ready and busied himself with the coronation and celebrations, the sooner they would be over.  He saw no point in trying to argue with her that time was a constant and could not occur more quickly or slowly, and she was merely making an argument of perception, which mattered not when he dreaded every second between now and when he’d find himself returning to his studies.

He supposed the least he could do was attend the ceremony; if not for his brother, then because Mistress had asked it of him.

* * *

Mistress Hudson knocked softly on the bedroom door roughly an hour later.  "Are you ready, sire?"

There was no response so she sighed, then attempted the door to see if it was locked; it, surprisingly, wasn't.

"My lady."

Mistress Hudson glanced up at the boy—well, she silently reasoned, he was a young man, now, hardly the child she first met, though he may still act like it.  Still, she smiled warmly at the prince, who was standing at his desk, examining the contents of a small wooden box.  Sherlock looked up and Mistress Hudson wordlessly closed the distance between them.  She stared at him expectantly.

Sherlock looked down at the box.  "This was my mother's," he said, and Mistress glanced down at the silver bracelet, a pale sapphire in the center.

"She favored you," Mistress Hudson told him playfully and the corners of his lips quirked upward slightly, though he did not smile completely.

He took the bracelet out from the velvet lining of the box, and the sapphire appeared a deeper blue in contrast to his skin.  Gently he reached for the woman's wrist and clasped the silver chain around it.  "It was never exactly intended for me to keep," he told her.

" _Sherlock_ ," she said softly.  "I hardly think that your nursemaid would be what your mother had in mind when she left this to you."

"Well, there's certainly no other woman who would be fit to wear it."

"Perhaps not now, but..."  He fixed her with a stare and she sighed.  "Only for the night, then," she said firmly and he smiled slightly.

"We'll see," he told her and she laughed, swatting at him playfully.

"Thank you," she said.  "It's very kind of you, dear."

"Don't tell the gentry," he responded.  "I have appearances to keep up."

She chuckled.  "Oh, you!" she said exasperatedly.  "Whatever am I going to do with you, sire?"

"I'm sure you'll determine something."  He smiled.  "Now, I suppose you have other duties to attend to, now that you've seen for yourself that I am indeed prepared for the evening."

Mistress Hudson nodded, her other hand smoothing over the bracelet.  "I will see you once everything has started," she said, and it sounded less like an assurance of her presence and more of a demand for his own.

"Yes, yes," he sighed.  "You've ensured that I will be in attendance."  He waved her off.

She sighed and departed from the room.  Only a moment later, another woman entered.

"Good afternoon, your highness," Molly said, curtsying before the prince.  After a moment, Sherlock still did not respond in greeting as he continued his final preparations for the evening, adjusting his collar and coat, pulling white gloves over his hands.  "I saw what you did for Mistress Hudson," she blurted out after a moment.  "That was—that was very kind of you."

Sherlock was silent for a while as he looked back down at the now empty box on his desk.  "There is no one else I could fathom giving it to," he told her.

“Yes, of course.”  She blushed.  "Well, I—I just thought that—"

"That it was a kind gesture," Sherlock finished.  "Yes, you said."  He turned to Molly.  "Mistress Hudson is ultimately a mother to me.  It's only appropriate that the last bit of my mother that I possess now belongs to her."  He glanced down at the young woman's hands and raised an eyebrow.

Molly looked down at her hands, blushing furiously.  "Oh," she said.  "I—er—this is for you."  She held out the golden-colored flower, her cheeks a deep pink as Sherlock took it from her.

"Calendula," he commented, examining the flower.  "A type of marigold."  He looked up at her.  "Generally used in healing to help cure irritations of the skin, eyes, or mouth, though you would know that, of course...”  She nodded vaguely as he twirled the flower in between his forefinger and thumb.  “Said to represent grief and despair.  It symbolizes sorrow."

"Oh god," Molly bemoaned, her eyes widening and a hand flying to her mouth.  "I'm so sorry, I—well, I didn't know...  It was just, well—"

"Pretty?" Sherlock offered.  "Deceiving.  Though perhaps not as much as, say, foxglove or oleander, with their toxicity."  He chuckled.  "Even you should know about those."

Molly stared down at the floor.  "I'm sorry, sire," she said again.  "I wanted to—well, it—it doesn't matter."

Sherlock glanced at her curiously for a moment.  "It is," he said after a moment, and her head snapped up, looking at him with uncertainty.

“It is what?” she asked warily.

"Pretty," he clarified.  "I could..."  He trailed off and positioned the flower against his chest before sifting through the items on his desk to find a pin, which he used to secure it.

She smiled hesitantly at him, still looking sheepish and otherwise completely unsure of herself.

He offered the girl his hand.  "We must be on our way," he told her.  He nodded toward his hand and she cautiously placed hers in his, her cheeks once again reddening.  He bowed slightly to her, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment.  When she opened her eyes again, they were a little brighter and she was smiling genuinely.  "To the coronation, then, my lady."

* * *

Sherlock gazed across the ballroom, glancing at the nobility and royalty of the neighboring kingdoms, all attending the coronation ceremony and resulting celebrations.  His mind insistently reeled with deductions and observations about the guests, easily seeing what each and every detail meant about their lives and the secrets they held, reading them through the very lines on their faces.

Occasionally a man or woman of the gentry (nobility was, strictly speaking, too important to be mingling with the spare son, now that the oldest had officially been named king) would approach him, offering congratulations (for his brother, as though it made sense to congratulate him on becoming even less important in the eyes of the public) and attempt conversation.  It only took a few moments with any of them for him to grow bored of the interaction, however, and he'd make hurried comments that would lead to them scurrying as quickly as they could without appearing rude—though, honestly, the social niceties didn't bother Sherlock in the least.

He glanced down at his goblet.  It was merely filled with water, a result of Mistress Hudson’s and Molly's meddling due to his prior disappearance, despite the time that had passed since.  He supposed they found it justifiable with his previous behaviors, afraid that he would overindulge or might mix ergot into his alcohol for an enhanced effect.  He had no such desire, but the argument was never worth making, in the end.  They thought they were helping; he simply didn't care.

"Your highness."  Sherlock glanced up lazily at the woman before him.  She curtsied, her head bowed low to reveal her dark hair, twisted sleekly out of her face.  As she raised herself up, he could see the sharp, beautiful features of her face.  "Lady Irene of Prydain," she continued with a coy smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow by way of response.  His eyes raked over her, in a quick attempt to read her.

"Performing your customary magic, are you, my lord?" she questioned him, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers, brow furrowing slightly.  She was still smirking playfully at him.

He scoffed.  " _Magic_ ," he muttered disdainfully.  "As though such a ridiculous thing even exists.  No, I'm merely observing, my lady."

Irene inclined her head slightly.  "My apologies, sire, I by no means intended to insult your intelligence," she said.  "Which, of course, is spoken of even as far as where I am from."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this.  "Don't waste your time with flattery," he said.  "Your own reputation precedes you as well, and I can assure you that your time would be better spent elsewhere."

"You misunderstand my intentions, sire," she responded smoothly.  She looked at him with slight pause.  She reached a hand upwards, but Sherlock jerked away.  “Sorry,” she quickly said.  “I was merely curious…”

Sherlock put a hand through his dark curls and the small stripe of white hair there; he knew that it was what the lady was referring to, though he’d grown so accustomed to people ignoring it or being too afraid to question it.  His expression toward her was stony, though he was mildly impressed by her boldness.

“I’ve had it since I was a child,” he explained, and Irene tilted her head as she glanced at it, though his words had a definite tone of finality so she didn’t speak again.  After a moment, Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “Was there something of importance that you wished of me, my lady?” he asked, though the words did not have an air of politeness about them.

Irene straightened slightly, recovering quickly and resuming the matter at hand.  "I was merely intrigued as to whether or not your mind is in fact as impressive as they say, sire."  Sherlock's eyes narrowed skeptically.  "But I'm not interested in what you've to say about me."

"No?"

"No," she replied.  "That would be rather dull, wouldn't it?  To be told things that I already know?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously before setting his goblet down on a table.  He settled his arms at his sides and looked down at the Lady Irene.  "Who, then?" he asked.

Her grin broadened.  She stepped closer to him, crossing the line into a more personal area, but Sherlock didn't flinch.  Instead she angled herself so that her shoulder was pressed against his arm.  “The man speaking to your brother,” she

suggested.

His eyes scanned the crowd until they rested on his brother and the older man speaking to him.  He showed no emotion as he glanced at Mycroft for perhaps a moment too long (taking in the details, as always—he was the one who taught him to do this in the first place, and they used to make a game out of it, but that was fifteen years ago).  Instead he focused his attention on the man speaking to the king.

“Widower,” he commented.  “The woman accompanying him is young, definitely too young to have mothered his son.  He is likely holding the position of duke, judging by the attention paid to his presentation, and the quality of his boots.  He is interested in business and trade with the kingdom, probably an effort that was repeatedly made but never completed before.  Very eager to please, and very precise with every movement and the way that he’s speaking.  It almost seems rehearsed, and the proximity he holds to my brother suggests that he was familiar with his predecessor, our father.”

“You said he has a son?” Irene asked.

Sherlock waved over to a man on the other side of the room.  “The center pin that he is wearing bears the same insignia.”

Irene glanced at Sherlock for a moment, her smile proving how impressed she actually was.  “And what of the woman he’s speaking to?”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the blond woman chatting to the duke’s son.  “Dull,” he sighed.  “Fairly ordinary, showing interest in him because of his hereditary title.”

"What about her, then?" she asked, waving a gloved hand at a brunette girl.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this.  "That's Molly, a healer who works within the castle," he explained.  "Far too easy as I already know her."  He paused.  "On the other hand, the man she's dancing with is decidedly not interested in her."

"How do you figure?" Irene asked.  "He looks pleased enough," she reasoned.

"The way he stands with her," Sherlock explained, gesturing at them with an open hand.  "Too distant to merely be polite and respectful."

"Unlike how we are standing?" she quipped, looking up at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and focused on the pair.  "Though he's interested in her, it's more likely it's for conversational purposes only, or perhaps out of sense of duty.  Though—no, his posture doesn't quite read as chivalrous as a man who would ask her to dance merely because she was standing by herself."

"Maybe he knows her, then," Irene suggested.

"Possible, though more than likely not," Sherlock continued.  "There is no familiarity in the way that Molly is conducting herself.  Furthermore, she's flushed and perhaps a bit more flustered than usual; the only other person she reacts that way to is..."

Irene chuckled as Sherlock’s sentence dropped off.  "You have an admirer, then, your highness," she said.

He ignored the comment from Irene once more.  "Now, watch the way that he excuses himself from her," he said, gesturing to the dark-haired man who bowed a little too quickly before turning from Molly.  Nearly immediately he bumped into another nobleman and there was a quick exchange of apologies.

"Too eager to make his escape," she said, and Sherlock hummed in response.  He narrowed his eyes slightly, following the man who had just abandoned Molly.  "Now, what do you think of the Earl of Corona?"

Instantly Sherlock's focus turned to the man Irene was speaking of.  "Lord Edward is not particularly fascinating," he sighed.  "Though, he has recently turned to less-than-honorable forms of trade with some eastern empires, and he's romantically involved with the Lady Amanda, though that's still a secret."

" _Really_?" Irene inquired.  "Wait, let me think..."  She was silent for a moment, tapping a finger against her lips before gesturing back to the man.  "The pin in her hair," she said after some time.  "It's of jade, similar to that of the broach he's wearing.  Am I correct?"

Sherlock tilted his head slightly.  "It's an adequate observation," he allowed, "though it's just one of many that create the whole image."

She sighed, though it was with amusement.  "I hope you don't object to my saying that your intelligence is incredibly attractive, my lord."  She chuckled.  “I feel as though the time I spent earlier with Lord Sebastian was a complete waste, comparatively.”

Sherlock didn't respond.  Instead, his eyes roamed over the attendants, until they at last fell on the figure of the aforementioned Baron of the Southern Isles.  He watched as the man wavered slightly, grabbing onto the table near them before picking up a goblet.  His eyes narrowed.

"I suspect he's had a bit too much wine by now," Irene said cheekily, but Sherlock took a tentative step closer to the man, without the intent of being noticed.  His mind raced with the clues, quickly attempting to put them together as the man walked past them and up to Lady Anthea.  He handed her the goblet and she gracefully accepted and thanked him.

"Or something more nefarious," he muttered.  Instantly he was crossing the room as Anthea lifted the chalice.  "Stop!" he cried, and it brought the attention to the prince, now quickly plucking the wine from Lady Anthea's hands, glaring at the Baron.  A few nobles near them were turning, looking curiously at the cause of the prince’s shout.

Instantly Irene was at his side.  “Your highness?” she questioned.

“What is it, sire?” Lady Anthea asked in turn, looking at Sherlock with great uncertainty.

“You can’t take this,” he told her firmly, and as he spoke, even more guests were trying to see what was causing a disturbance in the middle of the celebration.

"Sherlock, _what's_ going on?"  The man's heart stopped at the voice those words belonged to.  He didn't turn the slightest amount to watch his brother approaching.  He could very well sense it, but he couldn’t bring himself to look, to see the expression on Mycroft’s face; already his words rang with disapproval and irritation, so horribly patronizing.

"It's been poisoned," Sherlock said in a low voice and the lady looked at him with a gasp as the nobleman laughed dryly.

"This is preposterous," he commented.  He turned to Mycroft.  "Your majesty, your brother is out of line with such an accusation!"

Mycroft’s eyes were still locked purposefully on Sherlock’s face, though his younger brother still avoided a glance back in his direction.  "You'd better explain yourself, Sherlock," Mycroft growled with a sharp inhalation through the nose, as though to calm himself.  "Lord Sebastian is a respectable man and a crucial ally of ours!"

"Such a _respectable man_ wouldn't put henbane to use against a lady of our court," Sherlock spat, clutching the goblet in both of his hands, knuckles turning white from his angry grip.

"Henbane?" Irene inquired, and Sherlock's gaze broke from Sebastian's for just a moment so he could glance at her; he knew she was waiting for an explanation of his conclusion, much like his brother, and much like many around them were, now.  The music, he vaguely registered, was still playing, and he could still hear chatter and laughter throughout the room, though the immediate vicinity surrounding them was hushed, watching quietly.

"Henbane is known to commonly grow by the sea," he said quickly.  "The baron's exposed skin is of a darker complexion, but near his collar and cuff you can see the paler tone it usually takes.  Similarly, the state of his boots denotes sand and salty air have weathered them.  There's slight discoloration on his fingers, commonly caused by the berries of henbane, generally from someone who is not accustomed to using it and how to avoid such stains.  The putrid smell also suggests the usage of the herb; a smell much like rotting.  Prolonged exposure to the odor can commonly lead to symptoms such as dizziness, just as the Baron is exhibiting."  He drew in a breath.  "As for the symptoms for actual ingestion?  That is a different and rather morbid matter."

There was silence in the small group of nobles.  "This is ridiculous," Sebastian hissed at him.  His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes narrowed slits.  "As though I would ever step foot near such a thing.  No one with any _sense_ would!"

"As though _sense_ has anything to do with the matter," Sherlock retorted.  "And you're hardly an expert on _sense_ , anyway."

"Your highness," Irene said suddenly, and the tone was so deceivingly innocent.  "How is it that you're so familiar with henbane and its properties?"

Sherlock rounded on her.  "And what is _your_ suggestion, my lady?" he asked her challengingly.  He ignored the fact that the hand no longer gripping the goblet was now shaking slightly.  He flexed his fingers before curling them back into his palm, doing his best to will the sensation away.

She shook her head.  "I only think that henbane is an herb that many have not had much experience with, and you seem terribly informed."  She paused, the attempt at virtuousness so sickeningly preposterous, Sherlock wanted to hate her for even attempting the act.  "Especially with the powers when ingested.  You speak with an air of personal experience."

The silence pressed heavily on Sherlock with Irene's implications.  _Of course_ she could figure it out; she was one of the cleverest in the lot, and she'd certainly been observing him since their meeting.  Perhaps she'd even managed to dig deep enough to discover the darker secrets revolving around the royal family, despite Mycroft's efforts to bury them, prior to the festivities; he’d heard brief references to her reputation, and he was quickly learning that it was founded in truth.

"I believe that you have stepped out of line with what it is you are intending to say, my lady," Mycroft said coldly, his tone dangerous.

"My sincerest apologies," she said quickly, but it fell flat as Sherlock could hear the definite falseness in the words.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.  _Stupid_ , he berated himself.  But already Irene had done her damage.

"Sherlock, did you actually _see_ the baron, or anyone for that matter, poison the wine?" Mycroft pressed on, his tone still incredibly frigid.  Sherlock turned to him, but was temporarily reassured as he realized that his brother was not condemning him, but rather giving him a chance—hoping against all hope that Sherlock might be able to redeem himself.

His eyes fluttered shut and he lifted a hand near his face, as though it would help him focus, fingers twitching slightly as though he was physically sifting through his mind.  Quickly Sherlock replayed every detail of the night where he had observed Sebastian, even peripherally.  There was something that didn't sit right.  It was one quick moment, just a split second.  It was something he hardly noticed.  _Something_...

His eyes snapped open and he turned to the nobleman.  "Turn out your pockets," he ordered him.

Sebastian rounded on him once more.  "Excuse me?"

Mycroft sighed.  "My lord, if you wouldn't mind indulging my brother," he pleaded.  "At the very least, it could clear things up and this ordeal can be properly handled."

Sebastian glared at the older brother before yanking at one of his coat pockets, proving that it was empty.  Then, he out-turned the other, and a strange root was left in his hand.  He stared down at it.  Immediately his face reddened.  "I don't even _know_ —"

"Salsify," Sherlock muttered, staring at it.

"Excuse me?" Sebastian asked.

"Salsify," Sherlock repeated irritably.  "It was placed there.  It—" He shook his head and his eyes flitted over the crowd, but his search left him empty-handed.  Again he turned back to Sebastian.  "The man that bumped into you earlier, did you know him?"

"I don't even know what you're talking—"

Sherlock growled in frustration and turned to find the lady he needed standing with a crowd of other guests, looking at Sherlock with uncertainty.  "Molly," he said quickly.  "That man—the one you danced with earlier.  Where did he go?"

Molly looked startled; Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was because of the attention that he brought to her, or the fact that he’d noticed she’d had some brief company during the evening.  "I'm not sure, my lord," she confessed.

"When did you last see him?" he demanded.

"Not that long ago," she responded, glancing around before returning her gaze to Sherlock's.  "Sire—"

"Think carefully, my lady," he told her softly, and he took a step forward and placed his hands on her shoulders.  He leaned in closely.  "What did you say to him that might have been of some importance?"

She shook her head, pulling her head back slightly, obviously flustered by his proximity.  "We spoke of... well, you mostly," she admitted in a half-whisper and she blushed deeply.  "Of the coronation.  Of..."  Her face fell and her eyes looked into Sherlock's sadly, realizing that she may have in fact mentioned something of consequence.  "Of the bracelet," she breathed.

Sherlock pulled away from her, face determinedly blank.  He whipped back around to face his brother, who was looking at him expectantly.  “I need to find Mistress Hudson,” was all that he said by way of explanation, and then he was pushing through the crowd, quick but his emotions still decidedly controlled.

As he emerged out into the corridor, he paused for a moment, glancing around for a sign, some sort of clue as to which way to head next.

“Your highness!”

“I don’t have time for you,” he snapped back at the woman who had followed him.  However, Irene seemed unperturbed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was absorbing the scene, but the walls and floors were cold stone and unyielding wood, bearing no evidence of what he needed.  He placed his hands to his forehead, slamming his eyes shut, thinking of anything that might possibly clue him in—

But perhaps the lack of anything was a clue in itself.  He narrowed his eyes and set off down the right side of the corridor, Irene’s footsteps falling behind his.  They stepped over two guards who were knocked unconscious, their bodies left on the floor in an unceremonious heap.  Mycroft could handle that though, Sherlock reasoned, because he had a more pressing matter.

He reached the parlor that he had commonly found his nursemaid in since he’d been little, seeking her out for whatever task he had in mind and (begrudgingly) needed assistance with.  It was an image of her he’d stored away, when he’d find her sitting in the bright afternoon sun, perched in a chair and sipping tea as a short respite before continuing with her duties as Sherlock’s caretaker.  His only hope rested in the idea that this was her safe-haven, just as Sherlock’s was the library, and if she had disappeared out of her own accord, this is where she would have headed.

He pressed the door open with a definite calmness, immediately calculating how he would be able to turn whatever situation he was met with on the other side.  However, the chamber seemed empty at first glance.  Then, he caught sight of his nursemaid, sitting awkwardly on the floor.

Upon seeing that there was no immediate danger, he kept his composure as he walked slowly to the woman, then crouched before her.  It didn’t escape his notice that Irene did not follow him inside.  He took in the angry red marks on his nursemaid’s wrists, her pale skin quickly bruising, the bracelet distinctly missing.  There was a rip in the sleeve of her dress and her shoulders quivered slightly, though she seemed otherwise in tact.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she sighed quickly.  He did not respond, only grasping her gently at the elbow to help her stand, then led her to a plush chair.  “I’m fine, sire,” she said dismissively, waving her hand at him, though he could feel the small tremors of her body as she sat.  She was like that; she always put on a brave face for him.  That’s just who she was.  “Your mother’s bracelet was taken, though, I’m afraid.  I’m so very sorry,” she repeated.

He heard hurried footsteps and he glanced up to see not Irene, but Molly, the other woman still standing back in the doorway.

“Can I help, your highness?” Molly offered quietly.

Sherlock got to his feet and took two steps back, allowing Molly to glance over Mistress Hudson, gently examining her wrists.  “Who did this to you?” he asked instead, his tone firm and demanding.

“I didn’t exactly see them,” the older woman told him, shaking her head.

“ _Them_?” Sherlock pressed on, furrowing his brow.

“There were two of them—”

“Molly,” Sherlock broke in.  “Once you’ve seen to Mistress Hudson, inform the guards that they are seeking out three men—most likely the two who attacked Mistress Hudson will already be dead.  The third will be attempting an escape from the citadel.”

“ _Dead_?” Molly asked, eyes wide as she looked up at the man.

He nodded sharply.  “They weren’t important, so he would have disposed of them by now—he has made it clear through this attack that he is not the kind to perform such acts himself, so that is why there must be a third man involved, also employed by him for this specific purpose.”

“Who is this man?” Molly asked him warily, but he turned and stalked out of the room, grabbing onto Irene’s wrist and yanking her to the side once they were in the hallway.

“You will _explain_ , my lady,” he told her coolly.

“Your highness—”

“I am _tired_ of games,” he snapped.  “If you value your life, you will tell me who you’re working for.”

“You cannot _threaten_ me!” she said, pulling at her wrist, but the grip that Sherlock kept on her was strong.

“I’m not making threats,” he responded acidly.  “I am merely telling you what will happen if you don’t cooperate.”  She narrowed her eyes and tried to tug at his hold once more, but there was no give.  “It’s that man, isn’t it?  The one who was dancing with Molly, who found out about the bracelet.  But he’s clearly not the type who’s willing to do the work for himself…”  He tilted his head.  “So what?  Was that all of his plan?” he demanded.  “Tell me!”

“I don’t know!” she responded venomously.  “I was only aware of my part.”

He leaned forward.  “So what was your part in this?  A distraction for the prince?” he queried.  Her eyes shifted downward, turning away from Sherlock.  “You know more.  Something else.  What is it?”  However, Irene still would not look at him.  He pulled her closer, unceremoniously.  “You heard what I said about the men who attacked Mistress Hudson—in all likelihood they are dead, and you know it to be true as well.  You’ve played your part.  What makes you think that he won’t be so quick to dispose of you, as well?”

She looked up at him, dark eyes showing the truth of her vulnerability and betraying her apprehension.

“ _Tell me_ ,” he repeated. 

“He has his eyes on more than just that jewel, sire,” she told him at last.

He looked at her, eyes flitting over her features as though he might be able to find more of an explanation in them.  “Other jewels?” he asked, then his eyes widened in comprehension and he straightened himself.  “The crown.”

Irene’s eyes met his, though she did not speak an affirmative.  Still, it was enough.  He dropped her wrist and turned.

“Your highness,” she said desperately.  He paused and turned to face her again.  “What of me?”

“What of you, my lady?” he asked, his tone cold and emotionless.

“He’ll kill me, as you said,” she told him, and she glanced down at her gloved hands.  “When he finds out, and I am certain that he will.  He is powerful.  Surely… surely you…”

“I _what_ , my lady?” he responded, raising an eyebrow.  “You think that I should be any different, knowing of your own participation in the events of tonight?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I had not known the extent—”  She shook her head and took a step forward, though Sherlock took a step back in turn.  She bit her lip.  “You must have a heart, sire; you must help me.  _Please_.”

“You’re wrong on both accounts, my lady,” he assured her.  “I will not help, and I definitely don’t have a _heart_.”

She swallowed tightly.  “Please…” she repeated, and her voice sounded weak.

“ _Run_ ,” he responded.

She stared at him for a moment, blinking rapidly at him before finally realizing the full extent of his words; he was giving her a chance to escape.  She was just a foolish participant, unaware of the damages that might result.  She nodded and looked away.  Sherlock turned away once more and as he made his way to the throne room where the crown jewels had been returned and secured after the ceremony, he could hear the clicking of Irene’s heels, fading as she made her escape in the opposite direction.

Sherlock’s pace was quick.  He only paused briefly at the outside of the throne room, collecting a halberd from one of the guards on the floor—both of whom were definitely dead; with a fleeting glance, Sherlock could recognize the distinct wound that signified a misericorde, clean and precise, clearly dealt by the assassin employed.  He gripped the halberd in both hands as he crept closer to the door, feeling slightly awkward with the weapon, as it was not one with which he was familiar.  However, he didn’t expect there to be enough time to retrieve his sword; he was operating on a schedule of vague, imprecise estimates.  And if the man with the dagger was not yet making his escape but waiting with the mastermind, he’d prefer a weapon with a slightly longer range.  It just might give him the advantage.

Sherlock gently pressed the door to the chamber open, and was slightly shocked to see the man he expected, sitting in his brother’s throne, king’s crown atop his own head.  He was vaguely relieved to see that he was in fact alone in the chamber, as though he was personally awaiting the prince.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, your highness,” the man said to him, his eyes dark and shining, his voice taking on a sing-song quality.  It all felt unnerving.

Sherlock stared at him expressionlessly.  He kept himself calm, detached.  “I wish I could say the same to you…”

“Sir James Moriarty,” he responded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “A knight?” he queried, glancing over the man.  He did not bear most of the tells that the prince could recognize in those that reached knighthood; he quickly reassessed, considering the possibility of a hereditary title.  “Or a baronet?”

“Of sorts,” he said, lifting a shoulder slightly, then dropping it, giving Sherlock no further explanation.  “Though that’s far from my aspiration.”

“You aspire to be a thief and a murderer?” Sherlock inquired.  He slowly approached the other man until he was standing in the center of the room, the point on the halberd’s head directed at Moriarty.  He stared at him intently.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Moriarty grinned.  “You’re certainly an _imp_ , aren’t you?  No, your grace, I’m a bit of both of those, yet not quite either.  I have so many who are willing to do my work for me; it helps to keep me off of the battlegrounds.”  He huffed out a small laugh.  “Honestly, I aspire to be _much_ more than that, Sherlock.”

The prince ignored the informality, though he bristled internally; it was disconcerting to hear his name from that man’s lips, especially in his brother’s throne, wearing his brother’s crown.  No, this situation was so inherently _wrong_.

“And I’m sure that you’ll realize, too, that I am precisely where I need to be.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  He opened his mouth to press the man for more information—was that some attempt at a threat, promising to sit in that throne one day, after usurping Mycroft?  Or had he laid some trap that Sherlock had walked into, unaware?  What was his intention?

“Don’t move!”  The shout came from behind Sherlock, and he shifted his body to see over his shoulder as half a dozen guards ran into the room, armed with halberds and short-swords.  The prince could peripherally see as Moriarty discarded the crown and raised his hands in surrender, three of the guards rushing forward to detain him; a fourth began searching him, no doubt for the dagger that killed the others.

“He has no weapons,” he assured the guards shortly, and a smile curled on Moriarty’s lips.

“He’s correct,” he told them, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sherlock.

The guard searching Moriarty glanced at another, who nodded.  He rose to his feet and they wordlessly took him from the chamber just as Mycroft entered.

He glanced at the two remaining guards with a significant look.  “A moment of privacy with my brother, please,” he told them, and they stepped back out of the room, pulling the doors behind them as they did.

Mycroft turned back and frowned at Sherlock.  “You went after him yourself?” he hissed disapprovingly.

“It was of importance,” he responded simply, as though it was obvious.

“And you couldn’t spare a moment to inform someone?” Mycroft pressed on.  “Call on a guard?  Any of our knights?  Someone properly trained to handle such a situation?”

“I’m no longer a child, despite the fact that you still think of me as such.  I have, in fact, become an adult.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes, waving his hand dismissively.  “He wasn’t a threat.”

“He killed two of our men!” Mycroft spat.  “He murdered two of his _own_!”

“It was not him; he plays a game of manipulation and keeps himself as removed as he can while he lays out his plans for others to follow.  He had no intention of harming me,” Sherlock told him dismissively.  He turned to walk away from his brother, to abandon this pointless conversation.

“You don’t _know_ that, Sherlock!” Mycroft grabbed the prince’s wrist, and Sherlock snatched his arm away; even through his older brother’s gloves, Sherlock could feel the cold of his hand, burning icily against his skin.

“It’s _fine_!” Sherlock responded venomously, and Mycroft snapped his mouth shut, lifting his chin slightly.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, the anger which had previously been a small fire now a raging blaze, burning him outwards to his skin.  “You don’t have to pretend that you care at all about what fate I would have met.  You’ve taken fifteen years to prove that you don’t care about anything, Mycroft.  And I’m sure that after Lady Irene’s accusations in the company earlier, that you care _least_ about me.”  He paused, sucking in a breath; he allowed a half-second for his brother to object, but he did not so he continued on, more calmly.  “He took Mother’s bracelet.  I would be grateful if you could retrieve it from him.”

“And Lord Sebastian?  The salsify?”  He paused, looking at his brother significantly.  “ _Lady Irene_?”

“All part of his plot,” Sherlock assured him.  “He planted the salsify on the baron.  It has a scent similar to that of henbane—I should have been able to detect the difference, really.  The other symptoms… it was foolish of me to conclude such a thing, but that was his intent.  He wanted for me to wrongly accuse the baron, and then have Lady Irene discredit me by referencing my past troubles.”

“You wished to impress her by exposing a murder attempt.”

He swallowed.  “I was foolish,” Sherlock said.  “I can assure you it won’t happen twice.”

“It should never have happened in the first place!” Mycroft retorted.

“And I can not change that,” Sherlock bit out.  “Instead, focus on the man you’re holding prisoner.  There is little that you can do to properly keep him in a cell.”

“I’m aware—”

“Then instead of wasting your time on your brother, chiding his mistakes, perhaps you should attempt an actual plan to charge Moriarty with his crimes,” Sherlock spat.  He turned again, walking briskly away from the king, rubbing absently at the place where Mycroft had touched him; the touch was so cold and strange, but his anger still felt so hot inside of him, that he tried to write off every illogical implication.

He headed immediately toward Mistress Hudson’s chambers, just down the corridor from his own.  He knocked, and when she called for him to enter, he did.

She smiled gently at him from her place, seated at the edge of her bed.  “Has everything been sorted?” she inquired.

“It’s being seen to,” he assured her, and placed a hand on her shoulder.  She instantly reached up to cover it in her own.

“Were you able to recover your mother’s bracelet?” she asked, a slight pause in her voice.

“I’m sure they will be able to,” he said.  “I had more important matters.”

Mistress Hudson let out a small laugh, and she shook her head.  “I’m not that important, you silly boy.”

“Nonsense!” Sherlock objected.  “Without you, the kingdom would fall.”

Again the nursemaid chuckled.  She patted his hand.  “Quite a day,” she told him.

He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.  “Get to sleep,” he ordered her.  “We can handle all other matters in the morning.”

* * *

The bright light of the morning did nothing to illuminate the cells beneath the castle, nor to warm them.  The torches on the walls provided the only light for Mycroft as he walked past the guards and to the cell at the end of the corridor.  He glowered at the man sitting cross-legged in the center of the straw-covered floor; in turn, Moriarty smiled back up at him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, your majesty?” he asked, false reverence in his voice.

“I’ve come for information,” Mycroft told him coldly.  Moriarty cocked his head to the side, as though confused.  “You managed to not only plan, but to carry out, a rather well-organized and thought-out scheme,” he continued.  “The people you exploited, others you had killed… the information you obtained.”  He lifted his chin and looked down at Moriarty through narrowed eyes.  “You will explain how you came into all of this.”

“Ooh,” Moriarty responded, as though suddenly understanding.  “That is quite a lot you’re asking for,” he continued, eyes wide and attempting innocence.  “I hope you have something to offer in return.”

“I do not bargain with criminals,” Mycroft spat.

Moriarty frowned.  “I don’t suppose that I can help you, then, sire,” he told him.

“Your life would not be enough?” Mycroft quirked a brow.  “Failure to cooperate may be enough of a reason to be hanged.”

“I am prepared to be put to death without admitting anything,” he responded.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed.  “Don’t think I won’t resort to means of torture to find out what I need,” the king said icily.  “Just as you have those willing to carry out such deeds for you, I do as king, as well.  I can call on them, if necessary.”

“Oh, but this would be so much _simpler_ ,” Moriarty told him with a smile.  He easily shifted to his feet and walked to the bars, gripping them tightly, pressing against them with his entire weight and letting the clanging sound echo through the chamber.  Mycroft, however, did not flinch or step back.  He simply continued to glare at the man with contempt.  “Are you not even curious what it is I would ask for, your majesty?”

Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose.  “Fine,” he allowed after several moments of silence.  “Indulge me.  What would you ask for in return for your cooperation?”

Moriarty grinned a little manically as he pressed his face against the bars, closer to the king.  “Tell me about your brother, the prince.”


	2. Stronger than a Hundred Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for being so slow. I've started a 90-hour child care course and it's been very time-consuming, especially combined with two jobs. Hoping that I'll be able to start managing my time better, now that I'm in the swing of things.
> 
> Still no John yet! Sorry! But here's more Moriarty for you.

"Excuse me, your majesty."

Mycroft glanced up from the table at which he was working, seeing the young girl he'd hired to aid his brother some time ago hesitantly entering his private chamber.

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow before looking back down at his work. He remained seated, though he shuffled the papers and scrolls he was examining into a neat pile. His eyes met hers once again. "What is the problem?"

"It's your brother, sire," Molly said, nervously fidgeting.

Mycroft considered her curiously. "Is all well?"

"Well, strictly speaking, yes," she told him. She bit her lip. "He'll be furious if he knows that I've told you…"

"Ah." Mycroft looked down at the papers in his hands and nodded once before looking back to the woman. "Has he run off again?" he asked bitterly, more than a hint of agitation in his voice. "I can handle that immediately."

Molly shook her head. "It isn't that, sire," she responded, and she took a step closer to the desk. "He's gone down to the cells."

Mycroft furrowed his brow at this, pushing himself from the table. "What business does he have down there?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and frowning. No, this definitely did not sound like a good idea. Then, he lifted his chin and closed his eyes. "He's gone to speak to Moriarty." He sighed; if he was honest, he'd half-expected this would have happened sooner. "Thank you for telling me, my lady," he said flatly, not sparing her another glance. "I will take care of this."

Mycroft strode out of the room, Molly following quickly in his wake. He knew that Moriarty would tempt his brother, just by his presence in the castle walls. His brother was always one for a mystery, a challenge. By this point, Sherlock would be aware that Mycroft had not yet succeeded in discovering more information than the bare minimum.

What Mycroft had offered him in return had been inconsequential, but it still made him uneasy. Moriarty was a master of manipulation; that much was clear. Mycroft felt his stomach twist slightly with guilt that he'd offered him anything at all, without the consent of his brother. But it had been a necessary action. Mycroft was well aware of Moriarty's connections; he was frankly a little surprised that there had been no attempts from an outside force to break the criminal out. He wanted to think that it was the ability of his own system of knights and guards that was preventing this, but he knew better. At the very least, he would have received word of the effort, even if they had been stopped in the process. And he remained very aware that fear and intimidation of the monarch would not keep such men at bay; no, it would be more likely for their fear of Moriarty to drive them to such an effort in the first place. It didn't sit well, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. They had Moriarty, the primary threat, detained. If only he could gain a small bit of information, they might be able to take down some of the man's following.

Yet it still seemed that for every move and option Mycroft had pre-planned, several steps advanced beyond anyone else, Moriarty was still a step ahead with a counterattack ready. His mind instantly began assessing the situation and preparing his next move in this ongoing battle. Moriarty clearly had an unnerving fascination with the prince; was this what he had wanted all along? To stay imprisoned so that he could somehow get to Sherlock? But what could he possibly  _do_?

At last, he found his brother in front of the cell door, standing stoically. The younger, taller man turned as he heard the footsteps approaching.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice a low warning. "I don't think it wise for you to be here."

Sherlock quirked a brow as Mycroft stepped forward. Sherlock's hands were folded neatly behind his back. "No?" he queried coolly. "Well, I don't suppose that you'd actually be willing to explain to me your reasoning for this aversion to the idea, would you?" He paused for a second, and his elder brother glared, hand gripping tightly onto a wooden chair, one settled for guards to sit in as they kept watch. Mycroft clenched his fingers, his knuckles white from the pressure, and Sherlock's expression remained passive. "No, I thought not. Should it not be a part of my duty?"

"And when have you cared for such nonsense?" Mycroft snapped. "Little brother, you never cared for royal obligations. So pray tell, why would you begin now?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, stepping away from the cell so that he was nearly toe-to-toe with his brother. "And why are you so willing to let him slip away?" he retorted, his voice a quiet hiss. "You've held him for weeks and what do you have to prove that time worthwhile?"

Mycroft lifted his chin. "What is it that you wish to prove, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Other than how little you actually know of me and my skills, brother?" Sherlock responded.

"There are more proper ways to prove yourself," Mycroft told him firmly.

Sherlock laughed dryly at this. "I do not care about your opinion of me," he told him. "I do not need to prove myself to you. I gave up on your approval fifteen years ago, so don't  _mock_ and  _appall me_  with your childish suggestions." He shook his head. "I wish to speak with him. To observe. I could have gathered much more about him the night he was captured, had I not been interrupted."

"Ah," Mycroft said with a sober, condescending smile. "Then this  _is_  just another mystery for you to solve. Another  _game_. If only you'd realize the difference from when we were children—that there are lives that could be effected, Sherlock."

"It's still a game," Sherlock responded evenly. "The actual difference is the importance of winning."

"Oh, how things have changed," Moriarty sighed. Sherlock turned back to the cell, slowly approaching as he listened to the prisoner. "To think that the king and his brother were once so close—it saddens my heart a great deal, I can assure you." He looked up at the prince as he stalked toward him. "I suppose that comes with the pain of growing up, though, your highness."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You'd best keep your assumptions about the past to yourself," he told him evenly.

"Oh, but I'm not making assumptions, sire," Moriarty said in that voice that screamed of false apologies and fake respect. "I have been informed by a very reliable source."

There was a brief pause. "Information disclosed was inconsequential," Mycroft said flatly.

"You told him about me," Sherlock hissed, rounding on his brother. "Why? To try and coerce him to speak?"

Mycroft, however, continued to stare at the prisoner. "As I said, what I divulged was unimportant." He paused for just a moment. "I have my kingdom's best interests in mind," Mycroft said, looking from Moriarty to Sherlock, then back again. "I will not hesitate to take whatever action is necessary."

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly. "Clearly," he said. "Then why not simply put an end to this now? Would that not benefit your precious kingdom?"

Mycroft made a grim expression at him. "You have grown cold, brother."

"I learned from the best," Sherlock responded easily, and Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment before looking down at Moriarty once more.

"You wouldn't kill me, either, your highness," Moriarty said with a manic smile.

"You sound certain of yourself," Sherlock told him.

Moriarty lifted a shoulder slightly, and tilted his head. "I suppose that I am, sire."

Sherlock's brow furrowed again, eyes narrowing as they flickered over Moriarty, attempting to read every detail that was written over his face and body.

"For god's sake, brother, he's playing you," Mycroft snapped.

"As he did to you?" Sherlock retorted, head whipping back to his brother's direction.

Mycroft's jaw clenched. "He did no such thing."

Sherlock laughed darkly at this. "No?" he queried. "We already know from the coronation that he can put any information he's given to a sinister use. Molly herself was used as a pawn." He gestured at the woman who was standing quietly, pulled away slightly from the others, her presence nearly forgotten. "Now he's undoubtedly outwitted you as well, and you've completely allowed it." He paused. "But no, you don't see it as such, do you? You still believe yourself to have the upper hand." He scoffed. "You are such a  _fool_. You believe yourself to know every answer and solution—you think that you yourself are a deity, that your words and decisions are infallible. King Mycroft can do  _no_  wrong."

"Hold your tongue," Mycroft growled.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "It doesn't matter what I have to say, anyway. Isn't that the point of this? ' _The heir and the spare_ ', after all. The first becomes king, the second ultimately ceases to exist. That's why it was so easy to abandon any concerns about giving details of my life; I don't matter. So what if I speak out of turn, in your eyes? It's ' _inconsequential'_ , brother, as you said. Or if you don't like it, I suppose you could lock me away. Banish me. I'm personally surprised that you didn't before. After all, I'm such a bother, a blemish in the royal lineage, am I not? Nothing like _Mycroft_ —proud, perfect  _Mycroft_ , with his capricious, pernicious brother—"

"I said  _hold your tongue_!" Mycroft snapped, slamming his hands on the table against the wall. And the moment he touched the wood, ice rippled out from where his hands were planted, crackling as the table froze over.

Molly gasped audibly, drawing her hands up to her chest. Sherlock watched the frost swiftly envelop the table before Mycroft snatched his hands back. Then, his older brother clenched his jaw and folded his hands at his sides.

Sherlock stared wordlessly at the scene, attempting to apply reason, but nothing of it made sense.

" _Oh_ , your  _majesty_." The sing-song voice of Moriarty broke the heavy silence that had fallen. "You've been hiding  _magic_?" He wore a manic smile, looking positively gleeful at the display.

Sherlock, however, did not say a word. He drew himself up and pushed past his brother, ascending the stairs. Once his footsteps disappeared, there was again an uneasy quiet, broken only by the tiny  _drip drip_  of the ice already melting away.

"I… I'll go see to him, sire," Molly whispered at last, gaze finally breaking away from the frosted-over table to the king. She looked to him with uncertainty, but he did not turn to her, continuing to stare ahead.

"Very well," Mycroft said after a brief moment, and Molly quickly curtsied before scurrying off.

The moment that she was gone, Mycroft sank into the chair beside the table, eyes squeezed shut and breathing deeply through his nose, folding his hands in front of his mouth so that the tips of his fingers brushed against his nose. After a few moments he opened his eyes once more to see Moriarty grinning dubiously at him.

"Oh, your majesty," he repeated. "I am…  _impressed_  at your talents." He raised an eyebrow when Mycroft merely glared. "You doubt my honesty, sire?" he questioned. He shook his head. "No, no, I am quite fascinated by magic. It's something that defies logic, isn't it? Probably the reason that your brother reacted so negatively, I must admit. But  _I_  actually envy those like you who possess such unrivaled power." He paused dramatically. "However, you must understand that there are  _many_  who do not hold the same views that I do."

Mycroft folded his hands into his lap, lifting his chin to look down at Moriarty with unbridled distaste. "What is it that you want?" he demanded.

"Right to the point, sire, I admire that," Moriarty said. "There's two things, actually," he admitted. "Then, you can be assured of my silence."

Mycroft scoffed. "And you are convinced that the people will readily believe you?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"They may," Moriarty said. "Or they may not. But at the very least, I will be able to completely discredit you  _and_  your brother. The moment that there is even a  _seed_  of doubt planted into the minds of men, it refuses to be choked down. Instead, it grows like an invasive weed until the truth is indistinguishable."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, frowning at the prisoner. "And what would your conditions be this time?"

The prisoner smiled. "First, my freedom," he said. "Second, your expulsion."

"You wish for me to relinquish the crown?" he questioned, only mildly perplexed at the dubious suggestion. "To whom?"

"Why, to the second in line for the throne, of course," Moriarty explained easily, dark eyes shining dangerously. "There is no need for dramatics. I don't have anyone waiting for the moment you leave to take over. No, no… The prince will be the one to become king."

"If you have no wish to take it for yourself, then why would it benefit you to have my brother in power?"

"Oh, you're considering things all wrong," Moriarty sighed. "I have my eyes on the crown, of course. I won't pretend that isn't my ultimate plan. But I have such bigger plans for your beloved brother. Far more than you could possibly understand, sire."

"And why should I abandon my brother when you've made it clear that you intend him harm?" Mycroft asked in turn. He rose to his feet, approaching the bars.

"Oh, no," Moriarty said. "I can promise you that I have no intention of interrupting the prince's rule in any way. I am realistic—I want a proper kingdom when I take over. To usurp your brother so simply would not really help me, would it? There would be a matter of gaining trust and loyalty of the people over him, and I can't bring myself to waste time on such a trivial thing. No, I have no intention of intervening once your brother takes the throne. You can be assured of that."

Mycroft seemed to consider the criminal's words for a few moments. "And if I still refuse?"

Moriarty got to his feet and grasped onto the bars, staring intently at the king. "I will  _destroy_  you, your brother, and your kingdom," he whispered venomously. "And I will ensure that you and your subjects suffer for every minute of it." He pulled back. "And we know how much your kingdom means to you. You were so willing to confide in me about your  _own_  brother, just because you were convinced it might save them, in the end."

Mycroft looked coldly at the other man. That was his choice, then—to give the kingdom to his brother, or to let it be utterly destroyed. Once he might have jested that they were one in the same; now, however, he could see the dire consequences of the latter outweighing the former. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's wish—despite detesting the title of being the 'spare', he was content with the knowledge that he'd never be forced to sit on the throne. He wasn't properly prepared for it; his disposition was all wrong. But still, a reluctant king would be better than the alternative, wouldn't it?

Mycroft inhaled deeply through his nose, taking a step away from the cell, and the man who was grinning maliciously on the other side of the barred door. He looked back to the staircase that Sherlock had ascended some time before. Perhaps, at least, he could speak to him and offer him a small warning.

"Very well," the king said, his voice nearly inaudible.

* * *

Molly finally came upon Sherlock again after some searching. He was in the library, rifling through papers and books.

"Your highness?" she said sheepishly, announcing her presence and simultaneously showing her concern and confusion regarding the prince's behavior. However, he ignored her, glancing over the pages of one particularly battered-looking tome before slamming it shut; it emitted a puff of dust as he did. He pushed it aside and slid another book in front of him as a replacement. "Sire, what are you—"

"An explanation," he told her curtly. "There must be something that can reasonably and logically explain—explain what just occurred…" He let out a shout of frustration after snapping another book closed.

"Sire, I… I don't believe you're going to find what you're looking for," she said gently, and he whipped around to her, glaring. She withdrew slightly, wringing her hands together. "Well, that's the thing about magic, isn't it?" she offered, though she was fairly certain that it wasn't what the prince wanted to hear. "What qualifies it as such? It defies reason. There isn't a scientific or medical explanation. It's something that doesn't make sense."

Sherlock huffed out a sigh of indignation and dropped himself into a seat. He lifted his hands in front of his face, his fingertips pressed together as he furrowed his brow.

Molly knew that, to others, this behavior would signify dismissal. However, she prided herself in having learned a couple of Sherlock's habits and tendencies since she'd come into his employment. She hadn't been actually turned away; not yet. She licked his lips nervously, looking at the man. Other times she might have walked away and left him to his thoughts regardless. However, she was aware of how shocked she had been by Mycroft's powers; how could Sherlock feel, after knowing the man for his entire life?

"Are you all right, sire?" she asked him cautiously. His eyes flickered to her and he arched an eyebrow. "I only mean… well… you didn't know?"

Molly bit her lip as she felt herself being scrutinized by the gaze of the prince. After a moment, however, he sighed. "No," he said flatly. "I suppose I should have known," he then admitted. "Perhaps I did, but I was simply too eager to explain it away with things that make  _proper_  sense."

"You honestly never believed in magic?" she asked, and she allowed herself to take a seat across from the prince. She tilted her head curiously; she knew that there were many who refused to acknowledge the presence of magic: those who were convinced only by what they could see or hear or touch. She herself had grown to doubt its existence as she grew older, but the tiny girl inside her still had held a  _hope_  that something so fascinatingly beautiful could be real. Shouldn't Sherlock be the same? "Even as a child?" she pressed on.

"No," he responded once more, and from the tone she could tell that he wasn't going to explain any further. After several minutes of silence, Sherlock pushed himself up from his seat angrily, fists clenching at his side. "I should have  _known_ ," he repeated, which immediately gave Molly more insight to his mental state; Sherlock refused to repeat himself on many occasions, when it was _requested_  of him. The fact that he was doing so now willingly, though most likely unconsciously, made her frown at the potential severity of the situation. "He locked himself away for fifteen years," he said tightly, gesturing with his hands as though trying to touch something in the air that wasn't there. "He didn't want me to know." He rounded on Molly. "Why?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, sire," she said. "Your brother adores you."

Sherlock scoffed at this, and he began to pace, to the bookshelves and back to where the healer was seated. "Mycroft doesn't feel anything akin to adoration or—or  _love_  to me," he muttered, still gesticulating absently. "Or anyone, for that matter. He doesn't know how. He isn't capable. And that's something he readily passed on to me."

Molly licked her lips again, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap as she looked up at Sherlock. "I don't believe that, sire."

"It's fact," the prince responded shortly and dismissively. "I was six when he first informed me how useless it was to foster any emotion for anybody. For a short while, I thought him to be misled by bitterness and anger, but time only helped to verify his statement. And honestly, it is better to know the truth than to be such a fool."

"I'm sorry," Molly said softly and genuinely.

"It's hardly something that requires an  _apology_ ," Sherlock said with a quick eye roll.

"But it does, sire," Molly said, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks, dropping his hands and raising an eyebrow at the woman. She slowly stood up, frowning slightly, her eyes distinctly sad. "You may not think so, but it does. Because you're wrong—with all respect, of course, sire. Feeling something does not show weakness, but merely that you are human. And it is hardly something that you can simply extinguish like a flame. If anything, tonight is proof of that, whether or not you wish to see it that way." She hesitated for a moment, her voice and confidence faltering.

"You may go, Molly," he told her, though she noted that the tone wasn't furious as she feared it might be. However, she did notice with slight unease that his voice was completely emotionless.

She nodded once, curtsying and making her way to the door. Once there, she did pause, for a just a moment. "Your highness," she said softly. "If you ever do need anything, just tell me."

"Obviously—"

"No," she quickly cut in, her cheeks coloring. "I don't mean as someone employed to serve you, sire, but… as a friend." She swiftly exited the room, not wanting to hear the potential rejection, but instead to let the offer settle in the silence.

* * *

Mycroft was admittedly unsurprised when he found his brother in the study some time later. As children, this was Sherlock's instinctual sanctuary. Even before Sherlock's tutors had taught him to read, he'd been naturally attracted because of the knowledge of its purpose; the fact that a place existed that harbored the answers to his questions, a place of logic and reason and science. He never cared for the volumes without factual premises, after all, only gravitating to those that could teach him about the world outside of the castle walls.

Sherlock did not acknowledge the king's presence as he entered the library; instead, he continued to stare off, decidedly ignoring him, even when Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat.

"Brother," he said softly after a moment; that's when Sherlock snapped his head in the man's direction, eyes narrowed as they locked onto him. Mycroft, however, did not falter in the slightest. He was well aware that his brother was furious. Even aside from the current circumstances, he'd been told countless times of his brother's temper, that he usually managed to surpass other emotions like sadness, straight into anger. Mycroft could hardly blame him; he now reasoned a little sadly he had provided plenty of reason for Sherlock to feel that way, but he was also still young. He had not yet managed to take control of his ire, or to completely transform it into the cold indifference he often thought he emanated.

"What could you possibly want?" Sherlock asked coldly.

Mycroft took in a sharp breath through his nose; he was not going to bait his brother, and he would not allow his brother's antagonizing to get to him either. "We have an important matter to discuss," he continued.

Sherlock scoffed at this. "There are many things that should be discussed,  _brother_ , but clearly none of them are actually important," Sherlock muttered. "Otherwise, they would have been discussed long before now."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you want me to apologize, Sherlock?" he asked, forcing patience into his voice.

"I don't want anything from you," Sherlock said evenly.

"Then forget this childish feud for just a moment and let me speak," Mycroft pressed on, frowning at the younger man.

" _I'm_  being childish?" Sherlock asked incredulously, standing and approaching his brother. "You've no room to speak as such, Mycroft. You acted like a child when you chose to lock yourself away in your room for the better part of fifteen years instead of being honest about— _this_." He waved his hand, still unable to refer to the situation using words like "magic" and "powers" without feeling like a ridiculous fool.

"It was for the best," Mycroft told him. "You couldn't begin to understand."

"Because I was never given the opportunity," Sherlock countered. "All you did was assure me that sentiment is a  _defect_ , one found on the losing side."

"I've told you already that this isn't a game, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. "You accuse me of not understanding, yet…"

"Because you don't understand, brother," Mycroft said exasperatedly. "You could not possibly comprehend the weight of the current situation."

"Then explain it to someone who still cares," Sherlock replied. "Because I stopped caring that first time you advised me to."

"Sherlock—!"

"No," he cut across. "I don't want any part of this. I don't want anything to do with you any longer. You've had so many chances, and you've wasted them, proving my insignificance time and time again." He clenched his jaw. "Instead of offering meaningless explanations, I'd rather prefer you just  _leave me be_. Just grant me that,  _brother_." He shoved past the older man, the door to the library slamming shut heavily behind him.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke at last the next morning after a restless night, the result of strange dreams and his mind unable to stop working, it was to a chill that had invaded his room and crept beneath his blankets and seeped deep within his bones. It took him a moment to recognize the sensation for what it was, other than a numb ache through his joints, or a product of the dreams involving his brother and the revelation he had made the evening before. He frowned as he climbed out of bed, blinking slowly and taking in the situation. It was the middle of summer—there was no reason for the castle to be  _this incredibly cold_. He pulled the curtains back to reveal his window, and his brow furrowed at the sight.

 _Snow_.

The entire courtyard was frosted over, slick ice covering the pathways; the water usually flowing in the stone fountain that sat in the center was completely frozen solid, halfway through its descent. The blinding whiteness stretched as far as the prince could see, past the citadel walls, dusting over the treetops, the lake and streams frozen a pale, dusty blue, all the way to the ridge of mountains that marked their northern border. And still, plump clouds swirled in the sky above, and the powder continued to fall, though not thick enough to obscure his vision.

He heard the slight creak of his door opening, and he could see, through the reflection of the window, his nursemaid entering the room.

"Oh, sire, thank goodness you're awake," Mistress Hudson sighed, not pausing for an apology at the intrusion, which Sherlock noted meant things were of dire importance. He turned to her and noticed the scroll of parchment clutched in her left hand, her right crossed over her chest to rest against her heart. She opened her mouth to say more, then shook her head, holding out the paper to him. He frowned, retrieving it from her grip and unrolling it, smoothing it between his fingers. He quickly recognized his brother's looped script in midnight blue ink against the off-white paper.

His eyes flew over words, from the appalling greeting of ' _brother mine_ ' to phrases like ' _bequeath unto you_ ' and ' _as fulfillment of your wishes tonight_ '. His jaw clenched, as did his hands, crumpling the paper roughly between his fingers.

"When did you find this?" he demanded, looking to the woman.

"Not that long ago, sire," she assured him with a frown.

"It was written last night," he murmured, primarily to himself. His eyebrows knit together as he narrowed his eyes at the paper again, trying to absorb anything else he could from the letter.

It was then that Molly rushed through the open door to his bedchamber. "Sire," she said, panting slightly as though she'd run to meet him. "Sire—"

"He's gone," Sherlock said simply, making his way over to his desk and setting the paper down before turning to the wardrobe and snatching out a clean shirt. He shed the one he'd slept in, which caused the younger woman to blush and avert her eyes at his lack of modesty. "It's already been evidenced what can potentially happen when he's provoked." He glanced up at Molly fleetingly as he yanked the shirt on over his head, not bothering with the laces; sensing that it was safe to look again, her eyes met his and she frowned as though catching on to what he might be implying. "But this— _this_ …" He picked up the parchment once more and shook it slightly at the two women, then dropped it again. "This isn't him. This isn't about me. There's something more—something…"

"You think that this is your brother's doing, sire?" Molly asked tentatively, and Mistress Hudson gasped softly, searching Molly, then Sherlock, for a further explanation;  _ah, yes_ —to some this was all still a  _secret_.

"Unintentionally," Sherlock answered, ignoring the questioning look from the older lady. Explanations could wait for a more reasonable time. For now, there were more pressing matters. "We know how much he adores his kingdom," he continued, unable to keep the slight sarcasm and bitterness from his voice. "Mistress Hudson, what have you heard from the people in the lower town?"

"Your highness, I don't…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm well aware that you're in the market every other morning, seeking out gossip and providing your own fair share, so please, let's forgo the excuses and head straight to the point," he said calmly, advancing from behind his desk to look down at the woman.

She huffed out breath through her nose, glowering at the prince. "They're in a bit of a state, sire," she informed him. "They believe it to be magic. A curse. Though where it came from, they definitely don't have an idea." She waved her hand dismissively at that. "But they're unprepared is the problem," she went on. "They're worried about food and many don't have enough dry wood or the right supplies to survive a winter."

"Of course not, it's meant to be summer, with plenty of time to take the proper measures to ensure they have all that they need," Sherlock murmured, snatching up his jacket and pulling it on before seating himself and putting on his boots. "Mycroft wouldn't intentionally harm the people of his country," he said. "And if he was…  _emotionally compromised_ ," he sneered a little at the last two words, "then it can be assumed this was a reaction to his state." Again he looked to Molly. "Much like yesterday evening." She nodded warily as he got to his feet. "For the time being…" he grimaced as he trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air:  _he would have to take over, to step up and, for all intents and purposes, be king_. "Mistress Hudson, see to it that rations are provided to those who need it," he ordered her listlessly. "The grain store should be sufficient for some time. Just…" He paused, frowning slightly. This wasn't his place. What more could be done? What could they offer? He had to act quickly, to make decisions, but these were not ones that he had ever given thought to. "Ensure that we are doing all that we can to help," he finished lamely. Still, she nodded and left the room.

"Is there anything I can do?" Molly asked, looking at the prince expectantly.

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "I expect I'll be having a visitor soon," he said evenly, now taking a moment to tie the lace of his shirt and fasten the buttons of his jacket. He ruffled his hair a little, smoothing and tugging at it in the hopes of something presentable. "When he's arrived, you are to get me immediately. Until then, I'll be researching in the king's chambers."

Molly nodded, twisting her hands. "Sire," she said softly, "if I may ask… why did your brother leave?"

"I'm expecting that explanation soon," Sherlock told her flatly.

"From your visitor?" she asked, and he hummed in response. Again, she shifted a little awkwardly, opening her mouth once or twice without saying anything before finally settling on: "Do you expect him—your brother—to come back?"

"That remains to be seen," Sherlock said evenly.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time he spent in his brother's room, reading through papers and letters and books he kept organized on his desk and shelves. However, he was thoroughly disappointed by the time the next morning dawned, and he'd still found nothing that provided a clue. He even regretfully acknowledged that the half-hidden attempt at finding out more information about his brother's secret was a failure, as well. He had thought that he might be able to uncover something-some sort of reason or explanation for things: not only his disappearance the day before, but perhaps even a  _hint_  about the years he spent hiding away.

Though Sherlock resolutely (albeit repeatedly) convinced himself that he didn't care. It didn't matter to him. And no matter what delusional opinions Molly alluded to, he most certainly wasn't  _hurt_ by the matter. He didn't feel anything, let alone  _hurt_.

That was ridiculous. It all was.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock glanced up at the servant, who held a tray of food. However, he wasn't interested in the least. He waved the girl off without hesitation, looking back down to the papers on the desk. She paused, then turned, her head down, and, a little dejectedly, left the room. She met Molly in the doorway; the brunette glanced at the servant, then back to Sherlock as the young girl bustled out of the room.

"Have you eaten at all, sire?" she asked warily, entering the king's chambers fully, but he didn't even look up at her. She approached him slowly, hands clasped in front of her.

"It slows me down," he told her dismissively, and she huffed out a sigh of exasperation.

"You know that isn't true, my lord," she said, and he fixed her with a brief glare. "Have you at least  _slept_?" He was silent as he sat back into Mycroft's chair, pressing his fingers together in front of his lips. "If you let your health deteriorate, the kingdom will find itself without  _any_  king."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am not the king," he snapped. He dropped his hands, and they clenched at the arms of the chair for a brief moment.

"Well, you're the closest we have, your highness!" she said, desperately wanting him to understand; she knew that he had been formulating a plan, but he did not divulge any of the details. Instead, she and the rest of the castle staff who were aware of the king's departure were left to adjust the best that they could, and that involved assuming Sherlock as the king, even if not officially. However, Sherlock still refused the position, and so she was met with silence. She sighed tiredly. "I actually came to fetch you because..."

"He's come, then," Sherlock said, his features brightening slightly, but also sharpening with the promise of the challenge. She could very nearly see the way his mind suddenly began to work furiously once more.

She nodded once. She made to respond, then paused. She withdrew slightly, looking at him with uncertainty. "You didn't say, sire," she said softly. "That-well, that it'd be..."

The prince got to his feet, drawing himself to his full height and looking down at Molly. "You can hardly stomach the sight of him," Sherlock observed, and she laughed nervously.

"No, I can't, sire," Molly agreed. "I certainly didn't expect that I would have to again, I admit."

"If all goes as I have planned, then it will be hardly necessary after this," he responded evenly. Molly's cheeks flushed against her will; she knew that it wasn't so much of a promise of her protection as it was a threat against the other man, but she couldn't stop herself. Still, she reminded herself that she was nothing to the prince; he'd made that clear on several occasions. Instead she ignored the warm feeling that was blossoming in her chest as it often did near the man.

"Can I do anything to help?" she asked, looking at him hopefully.

"I think it's only polite that we offer our guest tea," Sherlock said after a moment. "You needn't be the one to serve it, if you're so repulsed, but inform the kitchens, and have it brought to the parlor. He's to wait there for me, so a guard can escort him there; I'll be down in just a moment."

Molly glanced at Sherlock warily, but he said no more, so she nodded sharply before curtseying and leaving the room.

* * *

When Sherlock entered the room, James Moriarty was sitting in one of the wingback armchairs, legs crossed and quietly sipping tea. He didn't even look up until the prince settled himself in the chair across from him.

"I must admit, the hospitality thus far has been far batter than the last time, sire," the man stated. "Tea and biscuits are preferable to the gruel that I'm fairly certain your brother didn't even wish to feed me. I suppose you're already proving yourself to be a superior ruler."

Sherlock ignored the last comment. It would not benefit him to fall for Moriarty's baiting. Instead, he picked up his own cup of tea. "Everything is to your liking, then?" he inquired in false cordiality, raising his eyebrows in polite question.

"But of course, your highness-I mean, your  _majesty._ " The grin that Moriarty wore was infuriating, but again Sherlock didn't allow himself to rise to the taunt. This was what had helped cause this mess, after all. He'd been told he was rash; Mistress Hudson had always written it off as being due to his still young age and the lack of a proper caring figure in his life. Sherlock generally ignored these excuses and all that they implied. He didn't care for the opinions of others, and he certainly didn't care for their ill-conceived notions regarding his life and what was potentially missing from it. They were all idiots, anyway.

"I'm glad you're so pleased with the state of the kingdom." Sherlock chose his words carefully. He was all too aware that Moriarty had played a hand in this; he only needed to determine the extent of his part. Then, he could determine the measures that needed to be taken.

"Ah," Moriarty responded with a sigh. "I have to admit, sire, that I'm not entirely pleased," he admitted. "There is one rather concerning aspect... I'm sure you're well aware, of course."

"Unfortunately, the weather is out of my control," Sherlock told him flatly.

"Yet not out of your brother's, apparently," the other man responded pointedly. "As I assume that this was  _his_  doing, after his little display the other evening. It is the only conclusion I am led to."

"So it would seem," Sherlock agreed. "However, I fear I remain uninformed about his current whereabouts, in regard to his disappearance."

"Yes…" Moriarty sighed. He set his tea down on the table and leaned forward toward the prince, his elbows resting on his knees. "I would like to assist with that." Moriarty smiled. "You see, your brother and I made a deal," he explained. "He would leave the kingdom. In return, not only would I not reveal the secret of his powers to the people, but I would let you finish your rule as king without interfering. There were a few other details thrown in there, but they aren't pertinent for this conversation." He gestured dismissively.

"And why would you do that?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. He sipped at his tea, schooling his features to a cool indifference. He would not let Moriarty get under his skin so easily.

Moriarty chuckled. "I am sure that you can guess my motives—it is fairly obvious."

"To have the crown for yourself," Sherlock said with a sigh. It  _was_  completely obvious. "But why like  _this_?" he asked instead, emphatically.

"Ahh, yes," Moriarty nodded. "I don't want a broken kingdom, sire. I'm sure you've determined that I can easily conduct a revolt or even merely take the crown using the force of an army. It would be so simple. But then what am I left with?" He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs again, hands gripping onto the armrests. "Death. Suffering. Not that I care about that, really, in the grand scheme of things, but it makes things much more difficult in the end. And  _forcing_  subjects into loyalty? No, it is much better to be patient. With time, the kingdom  _will_  be mine. But I can keep my word and let you have your turn."

Sherlock raised a shoulder in a shrug. "You could wait for quite some time," he pointed out.

"Oh, my lord…" Moriarty chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "No, I won't have to wait very long at all. We both know that this," he waved his hand with a fluttering movement, "isn't what you want. You weren't raised for this. The spare son… And what's more, you aren't  _fit_  to properly be king. You don't have the disposition. You could rule, but what of your people? They would not love or respect you, you're too cold, too flippant and indifferent…"

"And you are different?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh, I don't expect them to revere me," Moriarty said dangerously, his dark eyes shining. "I expect them to  _fear_  me. But that doesn't matter. You won't be alive to see that. Because  _this_  will  _destroy_ you."

"And in regard to the current state of the kingdom—this frost. If I don't help you to fix it, then you will likely inherit a destroyed country anyway."

Moriarty nodded in agreement. "Yes," he conceded. "But in that case, I will have your brother brought to me. I will explain that he was the source of this suffering. And when I kill the both of you, I will be the king that saved them." He paused. "I'm sure his death could lift the curse. However, it's easier this way, sire," he said coldly, and the prince clenched his jaw. "You find your brother, you get him to  _stop_  this unnatural winter, and things can continue on as I promised him. Otherwise, we take the route where the king's death brings about the return of summer. You would have his blood on your hands just as much as I would."

Sherlock glared at him. "And I suppose you know where my brother is?" he inquired evenly. He took a mouthful of tea, but it tasted suddenly bitter. He swallowed it harshly.

"I had him followed," Moriarty supplied simply. "To ensure that he would not return."

"And you are incapable of convincing him yourself?"

"It would be… inconvenient," Moriarty said, bringing his hands together on his lap, tilting his head to the side. "And I do believe that his brother is more likely to succeed." He smiled again. "Besides, the game is  _much_  more fun this way."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, setting his tea aside with forced gentleness. "I don't have to play your games." He lifted his chin in a way he thought reminiscent of his older brother.

"It's your choice," Moriarty said, shrugging. "You can choose not to play, but you will forfeit with your life, as well as your brother's. Maybe even your precious nursemaid's, if I decide it." A pause, and he leaned forward again in a predatory manner. "So what will you decide?"

"Where is he?" Sherlock bit out, dropping his chin low again and furrowing his brow; now his expression was more intimidating, more menacing. It held less the air of superiority and instead suggested that he was not a man to be messed with. It was something that the criminal needed to know. "And how long do I have until you make the decision for me?"

Moriarty grinned maliciously. "I'm feeling generous," he said, the sweet, sing-song lilt returning to his voice in a way that made Sherlock's insides turn and his skin crawl unpleasantly. "I will give you ten days; that's more than enough time to reach the North Mount, speak with your brother, and return to the citadel. And if his temporary return is necessary to help thaw everything, then I'll even do you the favor of promising to  _not_  kill him on sight."

Sherlock sat for a moment, flexing his fingers and pressing his lips together in a tight line. He could just have Moriarty killed. That would be the simplest, wouldn't it?

"My own death would be so much more complicated than you believe, sire," Moriarty sighed after a moment, and he pushed himself up from his chair; Sherlock didn't bother wondering how the man knew what he was contemplating. He assumed that it was written all over his face. "You could have me killed, but then what? All those who have worked for me? They won't simply stop with my own death. My work will be continued. And believe me, it will only be so much worse." He made his way to the door of the parlor before turning briefly to the other man. "You have ten days," he said simply, and he sounded almost excited at the prospect of the new game. "Choose what you wish, but be aware that your deadline is already approaching rather quickly."

And with that, the man left, leaving the prince behind him. The guard outside the door escorted him back out of the castle, and Moriarty grinned at the door that closed behind him.

Of course, he was the one who started this game. He wrote the rules, and he could just as easily rewrite them to suit his needs. He could make them bend to his will so that he wasn't breaking them at all. He was a master at games like this—it was really a pity that Prince Sherlock had to be playing against him instead of for him. But in the end, it didn't matter. He'd get what he wanted.

This was all just a small hitch in his plan. He would make a few small alterations, and in the end he would still get the crown, just as easily. He was  _very_  changeable, after all.


	3. There's Beauty and There's Danger Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for taking a while to write, but this has been turning out to be a beast. Hopefully the length and the appearance of John will make up for it!

At first light, Sherlock took his horse from the stables and left the citadel.  He did not tell Mistress Hudson or Molly of his plan; it was unnecessary that they know before his departure.  Instead, he left a scroll at his bedside, where he knew at least one of the women was likely to check.  He didn’t provide any details, only explaining that he’d left to find the king and would be back within ten days; in the meantime, they were to continue seeing that the kingdom was cared for in the bitter cold weather.

The journey was proving to be tougher than expected as the snow continued to slowly accumulate; the snowfall had been greatly reduced since the initial storm, now only a flurry.  Still, he quickly grew frustrated with the number of stops he had to make, resting by a fire to ward off frostbite.  As evening approached, he became very aware of the fact that he’d traveled only about half the distance he had expected; suddenly Moriarty’s deadline of ten days seemed a lot sooner than he’d initially anticipated—to be able to make it to the mountain, convince his brother to do something, and then return to the kingdom… that would be a challenge.

The forest around him thickened immensely, and with the snow, trying to find the correct path was proving troublesome. Sherlock let out a breath of frustration and dismounted his horse; he glanced around, making his best attempt at gaining some sort of recognition of the surrounding area. It was no use; he would merely have to do his best to follow path where the trees thinned, almost like a sort of tunnel. If he was lucky, some signs of past travellers might be evident, and that would be able to aid him in his journey.

It was then that Sherlock noticed how silent the forest was, and he froze.  He’d traveled as far as the woods a few times during his escapes from the palace walls, and it was the complete stillness that unnerved him.  Even in the storm he knew that there should be something—the call of a bird or the cry of a fox; even the low, chilling growl of a nearby stalking wolf would be more welcome than this.  Instead, the quietness engulfed the area completely.

Instantly Sherlock’s hand found the hilt of his sword. He narrowed his eyes, keenly glancing around, turning as slowly as he could.

A shout was made, a battle cry from one of a half dozen men as they charged toward the prince.  He drew his sword from its scabbard, barely yanking it free to defend himself against the first blow.  Their swords clanged against each other and Sherlock was thankfully able to quickly disarm him, then slamming the hilt of his sword into his skull so he fell to the ground; he was only allowed a second to breathe, however, before the next two were simultaneously aiming their attacks at him.

The noise of the skirmish startled Sherlock’s horse, and it fled the scene.  The prince didn’t have a moment to lament his loss of the creature and his supplies, instead earnestly fighting for his life against the men in the forest while his mind simultaneously took in what it could: dressed like bandits, but with well-forged weapons—though not with the well-worn tales of a previous owner, so they weren’t stolen; adequately trained, though not quite the caliber of a knight or member of the army, unable to match some of Sherlock’s quicker and more sophisticated blocks and thrusts and lunges—likely they were relieved of their duties or positions before training completion.

His thoughts overtook him for a moment too long, and he felt the sting of steel against flesh; one man’s blade cut through his cloak and coat, only made of wool, with no armor or chainmail beneath. He swore silently as he instinctively clutched the wound.  He winced as he raised his sword once more, but the man crumpled before he could strike again. Sherlock watched the man’s body hit the ground and looked up to see the man who’d stopped him. He was shorter than himself with dark blond hair.  He was wrapped warmly in a combination of heavy workers’ clothes and leather, acting like armor. He was already fighting off one of the three remaining men, easily evading the bandit’s moves and quickly thrusting his blade into his side instead.  Immediately he was on the next man, who seemed to be a fairer match, and the two seemed engaged for a moment, sparks flying as the swords hit with the sheer force from each wielder.

The other bandit came running at the helpful man, and Sherlock didn’t hesitate.  His hand left the wound on his arm and he gripped his sword tightly, lunging forward and driving it through the raider’s belly.  At the same time, the man struck a final blow against his opponent, and turned to Sherlock, cheeks rosy as he panted, his breath visible in front of him.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the prince’s arm; Sherlock himself was surprised that he didn’t flinch away at the man’s touch, but he reasoned that in some ways he was his savior.  He instantly found himself trusting the man, albeit a little reluctantly.

“Come,” he said to Sherlock, tugging at his arm, and they made their way quickly though the snow.  “I doubt there are more, but just to be safe…”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and he didn’t ask any questions as he fled with the man.  As they made their way through the forest, Sherlock noticed the distant scent of burning wood; the man was taking him to his camp, then.  He led Sherlock to a small den, which appeared to be a hollowed out area of rock and hill.  The prince had to admire the man’s resourcefulness; it was not easily noticeable, and thus unlikely that they would be targeted by thieves.  In fact, he figured that, unless someone knew it was there, it would be passed by without a glance.  It would be a safe spot, if even for a few moments.

The man unceremoniously shoved Sherlock inside; he had to duck into the entrance, and he was crouching a little uncomfortably once inside, his head brushing the dirt ceiling.  Still, compared to the cold outside, this was bearable, with the fire emanating a cozy heat.  The man yanked Sherlock down to sit on a rock beside the fire, and he instantly began picking at the torn fabric around the slice in his arm.

“It doesn’t look too terrible,” the man said absently, peeling the fabric back, which was tricky as the sticky red blood plastered it to his skin.  “Can you remove these so I can clean it and have a proper look?”

Sherlock silently yanked off his cloak and coat. When he got to his shirt, he undid the laces, yet struggled slightly in pulling it off, so the other man stilled his movements with gentle hands.  Instead, he pushed the white linen down past his shoulder, careful not to drag it over the wound.

The man took a pot of water near the fire and dipped a cloth into it before lightly pressing it to Sherlock’s upper arm. He quickly, gently cleaned the blood away, until just the small gash was visible against his porcelain skin.

“Should be fine,” the man muttered. “It bled a bit, but it’s a fairly little cut.  Not even deep.” He then grabbed the bottom of his own shirt, beneath his external layers, and ripped a strip of cloth right off. He wrapped it tightly around Sherlock’s arm to prevent further bleeding.  “You’ll live.”  He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for the first time and breaking out into a winning grin.

Sherlock remained silent, staring curiously at the man, who then got to his feet, brushing off his knees.  “I don’t suppose you have a camp set up?” he asked, and Sherlock shook his head.  “You’re welcome to stay here for the night.”  He smiled genially again, then shuffling over to rifle through a rucksack. “I’m John.  I don’t live too far from here, but I’d rather not be traveling after night with weather like this.  Suppose it all ended up a bit good since I was able to lend a hand against those bandits, though.”

“They weren’t bandits,” Sherlock murmured, and John turned back to him, raising an eyebrow.

“They weren’t?” he asked, frowning.

“They were trained decently, and they were armed with quality weapons that weren’t stolen,” he relayed to the other man. “And beside that, they were clearly intent on especially attacking me, or else one might have been quicker to salvage my belongings when my horse fled.”

John’s mouth fell open slightly, as he looked at Sherlock disbelievingly.  “How could you even think to determine all of that?” he queried.

“The same way that I can determine you had aspirations to be a physician—likely one of the court if you could manage—but were resigned to return home with the passing of your father, and left to take over his position as blacksmith, especially considering your elder brother is a drunkard.”

John’s eyes widened, the corners of his lips turning a little into a curious frown.  “How—”

“Your determination to give immediate care to my wound suggests you were at least for some time studying medicine, though you don’t carry the traditional herbs or tinctures, and you needed to rip your shirt for a make-shift bandage, ” Sherlock told him.  “You’ve offered a reluctance to return home, with the weather and approaching night as an excuse, though you’ve admitted you live close. Knowledge of such an unnoticeable hideaway as this would confirm that you are familiar with the area.  The fire has also been burning quite some time, so you didn’t decide to suddenly find shelter for the evening, you’ve been waiting here for some time. So, you must have wanted to work far away. Yet, you’ve been forced to remain at home, out of a sense of duty or obligation.  Likely, then, the death of your father.  Your style of fighting is clearly self-taught, and the sword you own doesn’t quite fit you—undoubtedly sentimental value, so you grew up around a forge where you would be able to teach yourself about the sword, and where you’d be able to acquire one of personal value.”

“And my brother?” John pressed on. He shifted himself to sit facing Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged at the man’s prompting. “A blacksmith seems less likely to permit his son to leave home unless there was someone else able and willing to take his place, so an older brother.  There is an engraved ‘H’ near the hilt of your sword, but you’ve just informed me that your name is John.  The blade must have been his—and the scratches speak of more than just those incurred from unsheathing or small skirmishes.  They are too deep to be ground out, so the previous owner must not have taken care of the blade.  In all likelihood, he often handled it drunk.”

John continued to stare at Sherlock, eyes wide and disbelieving.  “That… that was quite amazing,” he said, blinking.

“Honestly?” Sherlock responded in mild surprise.

“Yes, but, of course,” John laughed. “My gods…”  He shook his head slightly at himself.

“I must admit, you’re one of the first to respond in such a way,” he said.  He looked away from the other man and down at the fire that was crackling in the small sanctuary.

“Really?” John said.  “How is it that others generally respond, then?”

Sherlock chuckled dryly.  “They generally excuse themselves from my presence with little regret.”

“You were wrong on one account, though,” John said, his mouth quirking up into a cheeky grin.

Sherlock’s head jerked back to him and he raised an eyebrow.  “And what is that?”

“I have a sister, not a brother,” John explained.

“A _sister_?”

“Yes, well, Harriet was quite fond of helping my father in the forge, and he couldn’t really deny her,” he continued, a bit of laughter in his voice.

“It’s always something,” Sherlock responded in a sigh, directing his gaze away once more and shaking his head slightly to himself.

John was quiet for a moment, as Sherlock continued to stare at the fire and the dirt floor, trying his best to soak up all of the warmth emanating from the flames.  He carefully reached out and laid his coat and cloak beside it, in hopes that they might become dry and warm by the time he replaced them on his body. John watched the man do this without a word.

“You’re a nobleman, aren’t you?” he asked after a moment, and Sherlock looked up at him with a quirked brow. “I know that what I’m capable of seeing is nothing compared to what you clearly can, but I can take a guess.” He smiled a little. “It’s pretty obvious from your clothes, and the way you hold yourself.  And your own sword, well—I haven’t seen many with such brilliant craftsmanship. It bears the signs of a nobleman’s blacksmith, or at least one of the wealthier gentry.”

Sherlock glanced over John once more. He reasoned there was no immediate need for him to admit his true status; in fact, he was fairly certain that if he was quick to disclose this, Mistress Hudson would scold him for being so careless.  After all, royalty was never without enemies.

And even though he knew immediately that John meant him no harm for any reason, he almost liked this odd sort of friendly companionship he was offering, no matter how fleeting it may be.  Yet here, he was treated as a person rather than his title.

“Yes,” he replied.  “I am.”  He paused, quickly making up his mind.  “But I would prefer no formal addresses.”

John nodded once.  “And where are you headed to?” he asked.

“The North Mount,” Sherlock responded.

“ _Really_?” John asked incredulously. “Well, that—that’s where the storm seems to have come from.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock said shortly.

John licked his lips, looking at the taller man a little warily.  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose then that rest would be good?” he offered.  “I’ve an extra blanket.” He got to his knees and reached over to his pack, where two small covers were rolled together. “It isn’t much, but considering you’ve lost your own supplies…”

Sherlock nodded, taking the blanket that was offered to him.  It was soft but worn a little thin.  After the prince removed his boots and set them close to the fire, he eased himself off of his seat on the rock.  Sherlock settled himself on the ground beside the fire, and laid his cloak over himself as well as the blanket, folding his coat to rest beneath his head.  He curled himself up, trying to remain in the confines of the quilt.  He faced away from the other man, eyes focused on the dirt wall beside him, watching the lazy shadows cast by the flickering orange light of the flames.  He heard John as he got into a similar position, removing his boots and shuffling his things around until at last a silence fell in the small cove. 

* * *

When John awoke the next morning, he found himself alone.  More kindling had been added to the fire, and the blanket he’d lent had been folded neatly, the dark-haired man’s coat, cloak, and boots were all gone.  He frowned at the thought that the other man had left so swiftly. He wasn’t sure why, but it left him with a sense of loss.  But what had he expected?  He hadn’t even been given the nobleman’s name.

And it wasn’t as though they’d made some promise to continue their journeys together.  No, he was just being silly.  There was no reason that he _would_ have stayed.

With a sigh, he picked himself from the ground, running a hand through his hair before yanking on his hat and boots. He then doused the fire and collected his things.  Harriet would worry if he didn’t return soon; he figured he should get a start already.

At that moment, there was a sound at the entrance of the small shelter and John whipped around.  He was surprised to see the nobleman entering again.

He looked curiously at John.  “You thought I already departed,” he said blankly, and the shorter man felt his cheeks burn with shame and embarrassment.

“I… er, I did,” he admitted, getting to his feet. He smiled a little awkwardly. “Where did you head off to, then?”

At that, Sherlock held out the waterskin to him, and John’s blush deepened.  “Oh, you…” He cleared his throat.  “Thank you.” Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking at John, scrutinizing him.  “I, er… I didn’t mean to expect the worst of you,” he said quickly. “I just—you were gone, and, well, I figured… I mean, I don’t even know your _name_.”

“That’s unimportant,” the nobleman said hastily.

John frowned a little but didn’t press the subject. “Well, I wanted to offer you some aid,” he said instead.  “If you want it, that is.  As you have no supplies left, I thought perhaps I could give you a little food and at least a blanket, perhaps a spare waterskin.  I’m not sure what we have ready at my home, but…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little. “You don’t even know my name, and you want to offer me help?” he asked, a slight edge in his voice.

“Well, yes,” John said with a frown. “Why wouldn’t I?” He shrugged a little, uneasy that he was expected to explain an act of kindness to the noble.  “It’s what good people do.”

Sherlock grimaced in return.  “And you offer me this after you’ve already helped save my life,” he continued after a moment, as though he still couldn’t understand the puzzle before him.  “Is there something you are looking for in return?”

“What? No!” John told him quickly, picking up his bag, and pressing past Sherlock into the cold.  The sun was bright and high in the sky, but there was still the sharp, bitter chill that clung to the air.  He squinted against the brightness of the white snow surrounding them, and then began to walk, Sherlock quickly following him.  “I just… I don’t know, I _want_ to help.  That’s not wrong, is it?”

“Hmm…” Sherlock hummed to himself, but didn’t offer a proper answer.

After a moment, John sighed.  “I live probably about an hour’s walk from here,” he explained. “Usually less, but considering the snow, that would be my guess.”  He hoisted the bag on his shoulder up a little further.  “I may be able to offer you a bath before you continue on,” he said after a moment.  “The good thing about living as a blacksmith is there’s almost always a fire going on with the forge, so we’ll be able to heat some water.  If you’re lucky, Harriet might have attempted to cook.”

Sherlock was silent, but continued to consider John. The man was so kind and willing to help, without knowing his true identity.  That was what struck him.  He’d received kindnesses, naturally, but they’d almost always been with the understanding that he was the prince; he was certain that had he not been of royal blood, most of those who treated him so well would not even attempt it. Yet here was a man willingly helping him without the knowledge that he was prince, or that he could ultimately pay him for his services with his weight in gold.

John was a puzzle that Sherlock didn’t quite understand, and he wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

Though, he reasoned, that was unimportant. For now what truly mattered was his quest to find his brother.  He had to put an end to the dreadful winter that had fallen.

He narrowed his eyes as he watched John, following his every move.  _Perhaps_ he could be of more assistance than what was offered. He let himself collect information from the smaller man—hard worker, yet not very well-off; clearly a heroic nature and strong moral values.  Surely this man would want to ensure Sherlock’s safety in his journey? He’d already saved his life once, and adequately patched up his wound.  Perhaps if he did in fact offer compensation, a hefty remittance in return for his company to the North Mount, he would be willing. It was likely John had horses—likely one for him and one for his sister, so that they might not have to walk to entirety of the trip.

Maybe, just maybe, he could convince him.

It was not much later that the duo came upon a small cluster of buildings, all small cottages grouped together in a very small village. Sherlock could almost imagine the tiny town usually busy with life on the road during the summer, but now it looked very dead, all of the doors and windows shut on the houses.

They passed one small cottage, and a dark-haired woman tentatively peeked out the window.  “John!” she called, and the man paused, turning.

“Hello, Clara,” he smiled.  He trudged over to the window, where the woman had disappeared from, only to return a moment later with a cloth bundle, holding it out to him. Up close, Sherlock registered the sadness hinting at her soft features and doe-like eyes.

“I made these for you and your sister,” she said, a little slowly, staring at the package as John took them, opening them slightly to see a batch of beautifully iced cookies.

“Lumbolls?” John said with a grin.

“I know they’re Harry’s favorite,” she responded, and John nodded at this.

“Thank you, Clara,” he responded, wrapping up the small biscuits again.  She nodded and waved the two men off.

Sherlock followed John until they reached one home—it was small and compact, though there were two stories (Sherlock reasoned the ground level was for business, while the upstairs was where John and his sister resided).  The chimney was emanating smoke in a steady clouded stream, signifying that John was truthful with his statement that they always kept the fire lit.

John pushed the door to the house open, holding it for Sherlock to enter behind him.  “It’s small,” he said, and Sherlock could almost hear a small sense of embarrassment, “but it is home.”  He dropped his bag near the door and toed off his boots, taking them over to the fire; a basin was there, filled with warming water.  A black pot sat at the table, covered, and John opened it tentatively. “Looks like Harry’s made some stew.”

It was then that a young woman pushed back the curtain that separated the back half of the house into two tiny rooms. She looked very much like John in her face, though she was taller and leaner, and her straight hair just a bit darker and her eyes a little bit duller in their shade of blue. She beamed at her brother for a moment before her eyes fell upon the prince.  She frowned at him before turning back to John, opening her mouth.

“Harry, this—this is, erm—” John answered before she could ask, gesturing to Sherlock, but at a loss without his name.

“John saved my life,” Sherlock answered instead. “He offered me a quick meal and a bath before I continue on to the North Mount.”

Harriet’s eyebrows shot up comically. “The North Mount?” she asked. “You’re out of your right mind.” She shook her head.

“Harry, don’t be like that,” John chided. “This man is of noble blood.”

“And without a name, unknown and unannounced,” the woman challenged, folding her arms over her chest.  “Perhaps he is of nobility, yet as far as I’m concerned, I’m within my rights to request some respect myself before I offer it in return.”

Sherlock readied himself to respond, albeit a little heatedly, but before he could do so, John gritted his teeth. “He is my guest, Harriet,” he said in a low voice.  “His name is not of importance.  It is just as much my home, and so he is to be welcomed.”

Harriet opened her mouth to speak again, but Sherlock cut across, “Don’t pay her any mind, John,” he said swiftly, his tone cool. “Your sister is reacting poorly due to the quarrel she’s had with her lover.”

Harry rounded on him.  “ _Excuse me_?” she demanded, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Secret lover, then, I presume,” he amended casually. “The baker’s daughter, Clara? Though whether the row was due to the disapproval of her father or your drinking, I can’t be certain. She is the one who feels apologetic, however, if she baked your favorite sweet.”  He glanced over to John.  “And I can assume that you’ve not made your brother aware of such a relationship, judging by this own look of surprise.”

Harriet’s cheeks burned a rosy pink color, her eyes looking furious.  “ _You—_ ” she hissed, pointing a threatening finger at the prince. “You have _no right_ —”

“Harry.”  She turned quickly to her brother, glaring at him.  His face, however, was impassive.  He took the pot of water from the fire, and held it out for her. “Take this, please,” he said evenly. “I’ll put more water on for myself.” Harriet snatched it from him and stomped off, behind the curtain.  There was a clang as the bucket was dropped.  He turned to Sherlock, just as Harriet pushed past the two men and trudged up the stairs, the prince’s eyes following her until there was a slamming of a door. “She’s not usually that quick to anger,” John said evenly.  “She’s already been drinking a bit this morning, then.”  He sighed.  “Clean up, and then you can have some food before you continue on your way.”

Sherlock turned his attention back to John after a moment, but the man was ladling stew into a wooden bowl, his back to the prince. Frowning slightly, Sherlock stripped off his cloak and jacket and boots before sliding the curtain aside and entering the back half of the house.  To the side was a partition, beside which was the bucket of water.

Slowly, Sherlock poured the water into a wooden tub, and removed the rest of his clothing.  He bathed himself swiftly, only in a quick effort of getting off the dirt instead of a thorough cleaning.  Within ten minutes he was dried off and he redressed, returning to the front of the house.  John was seated at the work table, eating quietly, though Sherlock did notice the man must have moved the prince’s boots and other things beside the fire. A second bowl was at the table, and Sherlock took a seat across from John.

“I wish for you to accompany me to the North Mount,” Sherlock said without preamble, and John’s hand froze, spoon poised halfway to his mouth.  He looked up at Sherlock with raised eyebrows.

“You want me… to come with you?” he asked incredulously.  “After you properly insult my sister?”  He stared at the prince, who did not respond.  John dropped the spoon back into the bowl and shook his head. “She’s right, you are out of your right mind.”

“It isn’t as though you and your sister are close,” Sherlock argued.  “Your reluctance has nothing to do with what I said to her.  You weren’t even especially eager to defend her against my statements. You even stated yourself that she’s likely to be drunk already, if not on her way.”

John continued to shake his head and pushed himself up from the table.  “That’s beside the point.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Sherlock agreed, and he stood up as well, approaching the other man.  “The point is that I’ve made it known to you I intend to travel to the very place that seems to hold the source of this storm.  I’ve lost my horse and supplies; you’ve already managed to save my life once.”  John turned to him, eyes narrowed slightly.  “And _you_ are quite eager to play the hero. You have a thirst for adventure and danger that has not quite been quenched, and in fact has only worsened in the day that you’ve known me.”

“I haven’t—”

“And if that was not enough motivation for you, I can offer compensation,” Sherlock continued, and John snapped his jaw shut for a moment.

“I don’t want your money.”

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock conceded, “but you do need it. I can see from the state of your house and your belongings that while you are surviving, you are hardly thriving in the way you once hoped you might.  You are hardly getting by, and I can offer you enough gold to ensure that any problems you have will no longer be of concern to you.”

“Assuming that I live through the journey,” John bit out a little coldly.

“Ah, but the risk is what makes it worth it,” Sherlock smiled.

“It’s a bit much to ask, isn’t it?” John muttered. “To protect you, when you aren’t exactly keen on doing much to help the cause?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter, because you will,” he said matter-of-factly.

John huffed out a sigh, taking a second helping of the stew and returning to the table.  “And what makes you so certain?”

“As I said, you’re eager to be the hero,” Sherlock told him.  “And I have to believe that you might even want to see me live.”  John laughed bitterly at this.  “You know that your hand could help ensure that I do.  I will travel to the mountain with or without you, but you are just as aware that if you accompany me, my chance of survival increases, as well as the odds that this winter might be reversed.”

John froze for a moment, then looked back at the taller man.  “That’s your goal, then?” he asked softly.  “To stop the winter?” Sherlock nodded once. “Do you even know what’s causing it?”

Sherlock grimaced.  “I… have my suspicions,” he said.

“And you’re, of course, never wrong,” John retorted, and though there was a bit of an edge to the tone, something in Sherlock did relax when he noticed that the man was smiling a little bit at him, as though he was teasing.

“It’s yet to be proven,” he told John, who huffed out a bark of a laugh.  He allowed himself a small smile.  “But I would be willing to pay immensely, as I said,” he continued after a long moment. “It would be fair.”

John looked down at his bowl of stew and pushed around the meat and vegetables with his spoon for several long minutes.   “Harry won’t be happy,” he said.

“If that’s your only objection, then I believe it’s fair that I assume you’ll be joining me,” Sherlock replied, and John grimaced a little, picking at his food.  Sherlock stood patiently, waiting for the affirmation.

“I suppose that the benefits really do manage to outweigh all else,” John said after another moment.

“Marvelous,” Sherlock responded, clapping his hands together.  He immediately moved over to the fire, lifting up his coat.  “Then I ought to—”

“ _No_ ,” John said sternly, turning slightly in his chair, and Sherlock stopped, looking to him in surprise.  “You _ought_ to eat, and let me speak with my sister and pack us some supplies before we’re off,” he said.  “If we are in fact going to be doing this, then I fully intend to do it right, so that we’re properly prepared.”

Sherlock fought back the strong urge to object or argue, instead making his way back to the table and dropping himself into a chair, looking grudgingly at the bowl before him before lifting the spoon to his mouth.

John nodded curtly at this.  “Thank you,” he said, and after another spoonful, he finished his stew and stood once more.  “Now, I need to discuss this with Harry…”

* * *

The sun was at its highest point in the sky by the time the two men departed again.  John had somehow convinced his sister to allow him to use her horse, so the two men ended up riding in a companionable silence for the afternoon; Sherlock guessed that Harry had been persuaded only because that meant Sherlock would be gone sooner, and thus had agreed.  The winds had died down and so the cold was less biting; though the journey was still challenging, it was no longer the struggle that Sherlock had encountered that first day.

They managed to avoid another attack, though Sherlock wasn’t certain how good that was.  He knew that someone was clearly targeting him, but who or why, he could not quite determine.

By the time evening was settling upon them, Sherlock was quite pleased to notice that they’d managed to travel quite a distance from John’s tiny hometown.  While still reluctant to stop, he did allow for it.  They were now back on schedule, and a short rest was acceptable.

As the sky was painted with brilliant hues of pink and orange, Sherlock stood waiting with the horses while John quickly scoped out the surrounding area for some shelter.  He came back in a quarter of an hour’s time, his cheeks rosy and looking a little breathless, but pleased with himself all the same.

“There’s a small cave near the stream, just down that way,” he told Sherlock, taking the reigns of his horse so that they could lead them down.

Sherlock followed, and when they reached the cave, just as darkness set in, the two men tied the horses’ to a large tree, just at the mouth of the cave.  Swiftly, the shorter man took the small supply of wood and kindling he’d taken from home and built a small fire; just enough until they were able to find a little more wood to get them through the night.  With a bit of fabric and wood, John created a makeshift torch, which he then handed to Sherlock, and the two returned to the horses.  John began unfastening his bag from his horse, when Sherlock froze, putting his hand out toward the other man.  Instantly John stilled his movements and he too could hear the crunching of snow.

John quietly withdrew his sword, stepping past Sherlock.  He narrowed his eyes as he looked around at the forest, waiting for the intruder. He crept forward, and Sherlock could faintly make out the silhouette of a man and horse, and for a moment he swore the human form seemed vaguely familiar.

The light of the moon and torch caught the man’s face and Sherlock quickly reached out to grab John’s hand. The older man had greying hair and he was carefully watching his feet as he slid slightly in the ice and snow, slowly leading his horse.  Over chainmail he wore a navy blue cape, and Sherlock was certain that if he were to see the back, it would bear his own kingdom’s crest.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, frowning deeply, just in time for the man to look up at the two he’d been following.

“I ought to have known it would be you,” he said bitterly.  “Lestrade, isn’t it?”

The man straightened a little at this. “I’ve come to ensure your safety, your highness,” he said in a clipped tone, and then bowed.

Sherlock could feel John stiffen a little beside him, and he swore mentally.  He hadn’t wanted this to happen; but, of course, John was clever enough.  Naturally he’d catch the address, and realize who he was. “ _Your highness_?” he asked, eyes wide.  “My god, you’re the bloody _prince_.”

“There were reasons I did not wish to inform you,” Sherlock muttered, faltering for a moment.  Then he squared his shoulders and looked back to Lestrade coldly, who had an eyebrow arched at Sherlock’s response to the other man.  “And am I to presume that you are the one who has been making my brother aware of everything from the start?” the prince bit out. “Of every time that I made an escape? I knew it was one of your lot—it makes sense that it might be you, the captain of the guard himself. You always were eager to please him.”

“I had express orders to tell your brother, your highness,” Lestrade responded coolly.

“Your brother…” John muttered under his breath. “You’re talking about the king.” Sherlock’s lips twitched a little as though he wanted to smile; John groaned.  “And I made you pour your own bloody bath.  _You_ refilled _my_ waterskin for me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock repeated briskly.

“It does!” John bemoaned, gesturing a little wildly. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“When you first asked if I was nobility, it didn’t matter,” the prince pressed on forcefully.  “So then, pray tell, why does it make a difference now? It is all but a title.”

John opened his mouth to argue before snapping his jaw shut.  Sherlock, satisfied, look back to the captain of the guard, who was staring at the two men curiously. Sherlock felt a little uneasy at the expression; he could only imagine what the other man believed himself to be inferring from the situation.  Sherlock knew that it wasn’t really any great significance—it was merely due to his hatred of his position.  He tried to pay no mind to the fact that John treated him more like an actual human than anyone else he’d ever met—probably even more than Mistress Hudson and Molly. It didn’t matter that John thought he was brilliant, and it didn’t matter that he held the same interest in danger and adventure.  And most of all, Sherlock didn’t find Sherlock’s presence companionable.  No, this truly had nothing to do with John. He’d met the man just over a day ago; he had absolutely no attachment to him.

“You’ve seen that I’m alive,” Sherlock told Lestrade. “Now you’re free to return to the castle; put Mistress Hudson and Molly at ease, as they were no doubt concerned by my disappearance.”

“I will be seeing you through this quest, your highness,” Lestrade replied.  “You might be alive today, but tomorrow?  No, it’s vital that I attend you, sire.  It is my duty, after all.”

“I don’t _want_ your help,” Sherlock snapped.  “There’s really quite little that you can do.”

“Your highness.”  Sherlock whipped back around to John.  He frowned at the way the title sounded on the smaller man’s lips. It felt more like an insult, after hearing the casual way he’d spoken to him before.  “Er—it’s just that…”  John fidgeted a little under Sherlock’s steady gaze.  “Well, he may be able to assist,” he continued on. “I know that you may be reluctant, but he has more training than I do, and he would be able to fight off an attack more readily.”  He paused. “And it is important that you succeed, that that your life is not lost in the process.”

Sherlock considered his words. Truthfully, the stubborn part of him screamed that he didn’t care; he wanted Lestrade gone, and he wanted to go back to pretending that he wasn’t royalty, and back to John not treating him as such.  He wished the captain had not followed after him.  But what good would wishing do?  It was just as ridiculous as the notion of magic.

Though, Sherlock bitterly reminded himself, he had realized he had been wrong on that front.

“Very well,” he said curtly.  He didn’t say any more, instead shoving the torch into John’s hands and snatching the small bag the blacksmith’s son had lent him, holding only a few items within, and stalked off into the cave.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. “I—erm, I started a small fire, but there isn’t much extra kindling, so if you wouldn’t mind…” Lestrade nodded and, after tethering his horse to a tree, John handed him the torch.  Once the man disappeared, John inhaled a deep breath and ventured into the cave.

He found Sherlock sulking, his outermost clothing and his boots resting near the meager fire.  Instead, he was wrapped up in John’s blanket, his knees drawn up to his chest.  John frowned at this and set his bag down before settling himself on the other side of the fire. He licked his lips, wishing he knew the right thing to say to the prince.  However, after learning who he was, he felt as though he knew even less about the man.  Why lie about his identity? If it really didn’t matter, like he said, why not just tell John?

“Sire—”

“Don’t.”  The word was clipped short, and forceful enough that, for a moment, John did stop.

For a few minutes he argued internally over what to say to the man—because, after all, even if the prince argued, he knew that _something_ had to be said—but nothing seemed right.  Instead he let his attention turn to the questions that were bubbling up inside of him: questions about the prince, questions about the king, questions about Lestrade…

“Why are you going to the North Mount, sire?” he asked at last.

Sherlock considered him carefully for a moment, his pale eyes roaming over the shorter man’s face.  The scrutiny made John a little uncomfortable, so he shifted in his seat, but he did not back down.  After what felt like ages, Sherlock straightened, lowering his legs so they were crossed like a child’s.

“I’m going to find my brother,” he said evenly.

This, however, perplexed John even more. “Did he go before you to find the source of the storm?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock responded.

John frowned and shifted again. He leaned forward, hands clasped together.  He licked his lips, unsure of what to make of that answer.  “Then, if not to fix this winter…”

“He _caused_ this winter,” Sherlock explained.  “The king has _magic._ ”

It didn’t escape John the way that the last word came out with a sneer.  He tilted his head a little as he looked at Sherlock.  “You don’t… approve of sorcery?”

At this, Sherlock scoffed.  “Whether I approve or not is irrelevant,” he said. “In actuality, magic in itself is irrelevant to me.  That magic exists is a childish notion, something that comes from tales of fairies and monsters and other such creatures.  It isn’t reality.”

“Clearly that isn’t true, sire,” John replied, carefully and pointedly.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, though offered no other response.  “It was miscalculation on his part,” he continued after a moment.  “When he left, I don’t believe he understood what he left behind.”

“And now it falls on you to find him and fix it?” John queried.

“In a manner of speaking.”

John nodded at this, looking down at his boots before frowning.  “I didn’t even know that the king _had_ magic,” he said.

“You are most certainly not the only one,” Sherlock replied, and though the tone was a little venomous, John could tell that wasn’t directed at him.  He opened his mouth to say more, perhaps to query about the secrecy, but it was then that Lestrade entered the cave, dropping the wood to the ground and putting out the torch.

“It would be best to get some rest before we continue on in the morning,” he said, and John nodded.  Sherlock didn’t say a word, instead laying down and rolling onto his side, back to the others, just as he’d done the night before. Aware that all conversation was not at an end, John peeled off a few of his layers before following suit; now, however, his mind was buzzing insistently with all that he’d found out in the last hour or two.

* * *

John awoke abruptly, to Lestrade shaking his shoulder. He quickly tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes, a hand scrubbing over his face before he looked to the captain.

“We need to get the prince to safety,” the older man said, his voice low and even.  John’s eyebrows shot up at this, instantly feeling awake.

“What—?”

Lestrade was hastily pushing everything into their packs.  “I went to water the horses and refill the waterskins, when I heard someone.”  He grimaced.  “Unfortunately, he got away… but I can promise you—”

“There will be more,” John finished, moving to put on his boots and heavy outer layers while Lestrade went to fasten the bags to the horses once more.  John followed him, his own pack in hand.

“I’ll wake the prince,” Lestrade said after a moment, returning to the cave while John made sure the saddles and bags were secure.

“This is unnecessary,” he heard Sherlock snap a few minutes later, and he turned to watch the prince angrily approaching, Lestrade close behind.

“This is for your own safety!” Lestrade responded heatedly, eyebrows knit together.

Sherlock scoffed.  “If they’re the same as before, which I presume they are, they will not be a great threat.  They can be handled easily, and then we would be _rid of them_ —”

“No,” John said firmly, and Sherlock turned to him, an eyebrow raised in surprise.  The shorter man blushed under the stare, but held his ground. “That is, you’ve already been wounded, sire.”

“All the more reason,” Lestrade said, frowning at the prince.  “We will try to put as much ground between us and them.”

“And when that doesn’t work?” Sherlock pressed on coldly.

Lestrade gritted his teeth.  “Then _he_ —” He jabbed his finger in John’s direction.  “—will keep running with you, and I’ll take care of them myself. You said yourself they were easily taken care of before, so I should be able to do so _without_ you killing yourself.”

Sherlock glared at him for a moment before mounting his horse.  Sensing that the argument was over, John followed suit, and seconds later, Lestrade did as well, looking a little satisfied that Sherlock was listening, even if only for the time being.

They rode at a trot for some time before slowing back down and allowing the horses to walk.  John allowed himself to fall behind a bit so that he was in-line with the prince.  He looked at him cautiously to notice that he still looked displeased.

“He’s doing this because he cares for you, your highness,” John said, but Sherlock just laughed drily.

“He does this because he cares for my title,” he said in response.  “It is nothing more than his duty.”

John shook his head.  “I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true,” Sherlock said evenly, and a little bitterly.  “You can rest assured that people don’t _care for me_ , John. And frankly, I don’t waste my time on such trivial things, either.”

John opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off when a crossbow bolt struck the tree beside him.  His horse reared onto his hind legs, neighing, and John fell to the ground, his shoulder slamming into the tree that had just been hit by the arrow. He was instantly thankful for the snow for breaking his fall, even if he was left a little damp and chilled by it; still, he knew that the fall would be more damaging had it not been there, beneath him. Another bolt whistled past them and John’s horse went running.  He swore; John only hoped that the steed found his way back home.  He had managed it on further distances, but John knew how different it could prove to be in the snow.

Lestrade was instantly back to them. He was about to say something—most likely to check that John was all right or to urge the two men onward—when three men were suddenly upon them.  Instead, he gritted his teeth rode past Sherlock and John, ready for the counter attack. Sherlock saw that the men were again dressed the same, though he quickly registered all three of them seemed broader and larger, using brute power and force along with their skills. Still, the prince could easily calculate the easiest way to defeat them.  His hand reached slowly to the hilt of his sword, eager to draw it. He fully intended to defy what Lestrade had ordered him to do, and to fight rather than flee. He could feel his heart hammering with excitement at the thought.  There was nothing akin to fear in his veins at that moment.

Then, his eyes flickered to John, who was struggling to get back to his feet, a hand gripping onto his shoulder. Sherlock could see as he bared his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, stumbling a little and falling back down to his knees.

John was not currently fit for this task.

John, who was kind and had already saved Sherlock’s life once, would not be able to fight, even if he was steeling himself to the prospect.

John was _wounded_.

The decision was instant. His fingers left his sword and instead returned to the reigns of his horse, who he directed a few steps over. Sherlock then threw his hand down, out for John.

“Come on,” he said curtly, and the shorter man looked at him curiously before taking Sherlock’s arm.  The prince yanked him up, and John seated himself just behind him, hands instantly gripping onto his shoulders once they set off galloping.


	4. Strike for Love and Strike for Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So with my birthday tomorrow, a new class, and some extra work this week, I knew if I didn't finish today I wouldn't for another week... Anyway, things are getting good! Enjoy, as always. (:
> 
> Also, the names Herling and Bork were taken from "His Last Bow" of the original canon; I haven't yet read that short story, though, and am not attempting any similarities. I am merely using the antagonists' names.

John reasoned that they couldn’t have traveled much further than a mile or two; he knew that was about the extent of his sister’s horse’s capabilities.  And even then, that was without two riders, and with fairer weather.  It wasn’t a long stretch of time at such a speed, but throughout the short journey John found himself struggling with the proper place to grip onto the other man.  He knew that wrapping his arms around the prince’s middle would help him feel securer as the horse raced on, but it felt so improper to him he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

In actuality, the whole thing screamed ‘improper’ at John.  He was a nobody compared to most, let alone the bleeding _prince_ ; yet he was there, their bodies pressed close as they rode a bit uncomfortably, with his fingers digging into the prince’s shoulders. He could only imagine what his mother might have said if she had seen such a thing; and _Harry—_ she would have been fuming, albeit for other reasons. It all seemed a bit not good.

At last they came to a stop, and Sherlock swiftly leapt down from the horse.  Again he reached a hand out for John, this time to help him down.   Awkwardly, John accepted, stumbling a bit once he reached the ground.  Sherlock steadied him with two hands on his upper arms.  John could feel his cheeks heat up inexplicably.

Even through gloves and John’s own layers, he could tell his hands were warm.  The grip was grounding, firm but also somehow so gentle.  It was something so very unexpected on all accounts, and it made John’s brain a little fuzzy.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, and John tilted his head to the side, blinking a few times.

“What—?”

“Your shoulder,” the prince explained impatiently, dropping his hands to his sides after a moment.  “You hurt it in the fall.”

“Oh,” John responded dumbly.  He rolled his shoulder a little.  Pain blossomed from the joint, but it wasn’t as bad as he expected. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It’s fine.”  Sherlock looked at him, doubtingly.  “Really—”  Suddenly the dark-haired man was reaching out, as though to personally examine it, and John panicked a little at the thought of more contact.  Part of him quietly hoped for it, before he reminded himself _who this man was_. “There’s no need, your highness.”

Sherlock froze mid-action.  His spine straightened, his shoulders tensed, and he dropped his hand gracelessly.  John frowned at the response, but when he looked to the man’s face, it was blank of any emotion.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, John cleared his throat and ducked his head.  He clutched onto the horse’s reigns and led him to a nearby tree, where he tied them. He reckoned he needed to get water for the steed, and perhaps start a fire in case they were waiting some time for Lestrade to catch up.  (He pointedly avoided any negative thought related to the situation; it merely wasn’t an option.)

He turned to the prince, who hadn’t exactly moved. Again, John cleared his throat, this time to get his attention.  “I, erm—I was just going to get some water, and hopefully get a bit of a fire going, sire.” The prince didn’t respond, so John shrugged to himself, a little half-heartedly, before going off. He didn’t want to travel too far, just in case there was more trouble approaching.

He returned quickly, noticing that Sherlock had seated himself on a fallen tree, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He didn’t pay any mind to the smaller man, so John decided against saying anything, instead giving the horse water before starting on the fire.  He began working at the two stones, trying to create a spark, when he heard Sherlock crunching through the snow.  He looked up to see the prince staring down at him.

“Sherlock.”

John blinked at him for a moment. “Sire?” he asked, frowning a little.

Sherlock crouched down taking the rocks from John and striking them together.  “I do in fact have a name,” he said, his voice even.  “And I would prefer you used it instead of ridiculous, meaningless addresses.” John stared at him, licking his lips a little nervously.  He opened his mouth to object, but Sherlock cut him off.  “You saw no problem with it when I was just a mere nobleman; I don’t see how anything has changed.”

John wanted to explain to him how _everything_ changed because he was no longer some unimportant lord but suddenly the _prince_ —next in line for the throne, who could very well decide John’s fate on a whim, have him imprisoned or flogged or killed, and have nobody think twice or question it.

The fire was ignited, and for a moment, John gazed down at it, his mind buzzing again.  The man on the other side of the flames was so peculiar; he went against so much that John had learned.  And while he felt himself struggling from the lack of comfort, he had felt more alive in the last two utterly mad days than he had in some time.  Prince or not, he was already rather inclined to believe that he would follow this man wherever he might lead.  And if he could recognize that that thought had nothing to do with a title, why _shouldn’t_ he listen to Sherlock’s request to use his name?

He was hardly convinced he’d make it out alive from this journey, anyway; it was unlikely any member of the court would be _able_ to put him to death for lack of respect.  So really, there was very little he could lose.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he looked back up to the prince.  “Sherlock.” He tried the name out; it felt a little strange, but he tried not to dwell on it.  Instead, he tried to quell the still slightly-frantic part of him by reasoning that he was following the royal’s orders by addressing him as such.

Sherlock settled himself back on a log, and after a moment, John decided to join him.  He tentatively took a seat, hands stuck out in front of him to warm at the fire. The prince was once again quiet, and John felt the sudden inexplicable need to fill the silence.

“So, erm… are you betrothed, then?” John asked, and immediately he regretted _that_ topic, of all that he could have said.  He licked his lips.  “Or, er, courting…”  He let the rest of the statement die off and looked to Sherlock, who was fixing him with a critical gaze.  “Stupid question, I suppose?”

“Quite,” Sherlock said blandly, turning back to the fire.

John bit his lip, cursing himself. He’d succeeded in killing any chance at conversation, then, it seemed, because the prince truly thought him an idiot.

“My personal disinterest is generally returned, though for other reasons,” Sherlock offered after a moment, and John snapped his head up to look at him.  “Your sister reacted to me the way that most do.”

John chuckled darkly.  “Harry’s never reacted well when the truth has been thrown back at her,” he sighed.  “But I still love her,” he went on after a moment.  “She is my sister, after all.”  Sherlock stared at him strangely again, and John frowned.  “It… I mean, I know things must be different—we hardly grew up the same—but, well… it isn’t the same for you and your brother?”

Sherlock considered John carefully. “No,” he said after a moment. “The only thing I really learned from my brother was that caring is not advantageous.”

John’s frown deepened, and he looked back down to his hands.  “I’m sure that…” He trailed off.

“There are reasons I never learned of my brother’s _powers_ ,” Sherlock spat. “The primary one being that I was only six when he locked himself in his room and rarely came out.”

John’s heart sunk, imagining how things might have been different if Harriet had done the same, essentially locking him out of her life.  Even with all of the fights and problems, he still adored her through their strained relationship.

He looked at Sherlock sadly.  How lonely must this man be?  No wonder he acted so cold and worn, to be shut out from his brother’s life so early on.  He wondered if he had anyone there for him within the castle; and if he did, John didn’t doubt that Sherlock had pushed all of them away without a second thought, to prevent any pain similar to that which had been inflicted by his brother. He wasn’t attacking others with words, but defending himself, and all of this made John’s chest ache a little for him.

“I’m—”

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock said, a little harshly. He inhaled deeply. “It’s unnecessary, and useless.” John nodded vaguely at this, a little satisfied that he wasn’t being dismissed completely. “Mycroft’s lesson was a hard one to be learned, but I did find it to be true.”

John paused.  “But it isn’t,” he said, hesitantly.

Sherlock scoffed at this.  “I have had plenty of time and experienced many cases for it to be established that it is,” he responded.  “I have only benefitted without it.”

“But you’re _not_ without it,” John argued.  “Not wanting to care and not caring are different.  Just because you don’t want to care does not mean that you are able to stop.  You feel whether you want to or not.”

It was then that the sound of a horse approaching could be heard, and Sherlock forced himself to bite back his response. He looked up, met with the sight of Lestrade, who was also leading a spare horse—no doubt John’s.

Instantly the blond man was on his feet, rushing to his horse to take the reigns and pat his nose affectionately. He grinned up at Lestrade, who looked a little worn.

“Figured that finding him was the least I could do,” he said to John, clambering off of his own horse.  “He hadn’t wandered off too far.”

“Thank you,” John replied, and he took the reigns of Lestrade’s horse, leading them both over to the other. After supplying them with water, he returned to the fire where the captain had seated himself.

Quickly John began working as a medic; he noticed the speckled wound on his arm, which signified a flail, and the small amount of bleeding from a gash on the side of his face.  He quickly washed away the blood, then jumped back up to retrieve white linen bandages and a small bottle from his bag.  He dabbed the paste over the wound.

“Stops bleeding,” he murmured by way of explanation. He then went to dress Lestrade’s arm. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sherlock watching him.  “I brought a few supplies from home, after our first encounter,” he said to the prince. He got back to his feet. “Danger seems to follow you, after all.”

Sherlock grunted.  “The attacks have been purposeful,” he muttered. “They’ve been sent to seek me out.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, well, the prince traveling by himself is an easy target, sire,” he said.

Sherlock, however, shook his head. “No, they’ve been aware of my route, to have been able to track me thus far, just as you were.”

John frowned at this.  “You have an idea?” he queried, returning his supplies to his bag and sitting beside the prince once more.

“I have a few, but one seems most likely…”

“Care to enlighten us, then?” Lestrade prompted, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Moriarty,” he said, the name sounding venomous. Lestrade’s face darkened at its mention, but John merely frowned in confusion.

“Who’s Moriarty?” he asked.

Sherlock huffed out a breath through his nose; John looked to Lestrade for an explanation instead.  The silver-haired man sighed, rubbing a hand over the uninjured side of his face.

“He was a criminal the kingdom was holding for some time,” he told John.  “Extremely dangerous, mostly because he’s a manipulative bastard.  Treats everybody like a piece in a game.”

“And he was let go?” John asked, a little disbelieving.

Sherlock laughed bitterly at this. “Because my brother failed to get any information from him,” he said.  “At least, anything of importance.  All he managed was to share a good bit of personal information about _me_ as way of leverage. That oaf is too proud to recognize that he was being used, and it was all just a trick on Moriarty’s behalf.” He paused for a moment, the tense silence hanging in the air.  “Moriarty was the one who set the stakes of this mission.  I don’t doubt that he would do all that he can to secure and maintain the upper hand.”

“Clearly he’s more than a bit mad,” John said. “And, well, you’re a man with great power.  Why even play his games?”

“Because I can win,” Sherlock responded, and his voice was sharp and dangerous.  Had it been directed at him, John would have felt a little wary. Thankfully, however, it was not, and instead he felt a hint more of the severity of the situation. Then, Sherlock was on his feet. “We need to keep moving,” he said. “We should still be able to reach the North Mount by evening.”

Lestrade sighed, planting his hands on his knees and pushing himself up.  There was no use in arguing the matter with the prince; and if Moriarty did in fact have his eyes on them, then he was honestly just as eager to keep moving.

“We do and we’ll trek the mountain in the morning,” he did say, kicking some snow over the fire to put it out.

Sherlock huffed out a breath and waved a hand dismissively.  “Yes, yes, _fine_ ,” he murmured, untying his reigns and mounting his horse.  With a sigh and a shake of the head, there was nothing that John could do but follow suit.

* * *

Just before dusk, the three men reached the edge of a small village.  Though he wasn’t especially familiar with the area, John was aware that it was the last town they would meet on their journey; it was nestled still fairly low on the North Mount, but he could see how high the land had become already when he glanced the way they came.  John could faintly make out the areas of land where he knew his own village to be, and they were now at a height where he could see past the treetops of the familiar forest surrounding it.

“We should stop here,” Lestrade suggested, and John turned back to him.  “We can stay at the inn and get a decent sleep before making our way up the mountain.”

Sherlock scoffed at this.  “We still have time before it’s dark,” he argued. “We can make it a few more miles before the sun sets, at the very least.  A bed is hardly a reason to stop.”

Lestrade scowled.  “Your highness, this will be our last chance to replenish supplies,” he responded.  “And though you may feel as though sleeping in the snow has been fine thus far, I can attest to it be different the higher we go.  It only gets colder, and the air harder to breathe.”

“Then you may feel free to stop,” Sherlock snapped. “On the other hand, I plan to travel as far as I can before night.”

“Sherlock.”  The prince turned to John, his face still hard; he could simultaneously feel Lestrade’s eyes boring into him at the casual address, but he didn’t glance at the captain.  John wetted his lips a little nervously.  “It would be best.  We could use the time to ask around, perhaps get some information.  Your brother must have passed through here as well, on his journey.”  Sherlock looked as though he was considering it, so John took a deep breath.  “Besides, the rest is needed.  I need to check the captain’s wounds again.  He needs the break, and admittedly, so do I.”

“Very well,” Sherlock sighed, grimacing slightly.

Upon reaching a tavern that had travellers’ lodgings upstairs, the three men dismounted their horses. Lestrade continued to give John sideways looks every once in a while, as he led the other two men inside, speaking with a pretty young barmaid about getting a room.  He turned to them, waving at them to follow; they climbed the stairs and she showed the men a small room with a few cots.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” she questioned.  Lestrade shook his head, but John raised his hand slightly, to gain her attention.

“Warm water if you can manage it,” he requested. “These men have a few wounds I’d like to tend to.”

“Of course, my lord,” she responded, smiling warmly at him.

“Thank you,” John murmured to her politely, and she curtseyed before disappearing to attain the water. Lestrade had tossed his bag onto one of the cots, and John did the same.  At that moment, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I’ll be speaking with the patrons downstairs,” he informed them briskly.  After discarding his cloak, he pressed past John out the door and back the direction they’d just come.

The barmaid returned a few minutes later with a jug of water, a basin, and a few clean cloths.  She placed them on the floor beside one of the beds and John again expressed his gratitude.  Without a word, she was out of the room again, closing the door behind her, and the man poured a small portion of the water into the bowl.

John turned to Lestrade.  “I can have a look at your injuries, now,” he stated, and Lestrade nodded vaguely.  He stripped off his chainmail, the heavy padding, and the lightweight linen shirt beneath. He then settled himself on the bed he’d claimed, peeling off the bandage from his arm.  John nudged the bowl of water across the floor with his foot before dipping one of the flannels inside.  Lestrade turned his left arm so that his palm faced up, and John dabbed at the bruised skin, flecked with bits of blood.  The captain watched him steadily, but John focused on the injury.

“‘Sherlock’, then?” he queried after several long minutes, and John felt his cheeks heat.

“I’m sure you’re aware of his name, Captain,” he responded, a little uneasily.

“Naturally,” Lestrade said.  “But hearing someone use it is far from common.”

“He asked me to,” John said quickly.

“I don’t doubt that.  But that doesn’t make it any less strange to hear.”

John dropped the cloth into the water, and, after applying a paste to the wound, wrapped new bandages around the man’s arm. “I suppose it makes me special,” he said dryly, unable to keep the sharp sarcasm from his voice. He shifted back up onto his feet, now leaning down to clean the gash on Lestrade’s face, rinsing some of the blood matted in his silver hair.

“You can jest if you like, but it does,” the captain said, and John froze for just a moment before squeezing out the flannel and then slowly returning to his task.  “His nursemaid is the only person that I can recall having that permission, and she had the task of nearly raising him.”  He pulled back slightly from John.  “He doesn’t get close to people.”

“Well, he certainly hasn’t to me, either,” the man said flatly.  “His brother ensured that he trusts nobody.”

“If anyone can turn that around, I’m willing to promise that it will be you,” Lestrade commented with an air of finality. John didn’t argue against it; clearly there was no point, with the captain so convinced.  Instead, he dabbed more of the medical paste to the man’s cheek and then returned it to his things.

Lestrade pulled on his shirt again, just as Sherlock reappeared at the door.  The taller man slumped onto his cot.  “Nobody seems to be aware of anything other than themselves,” he huffed. “Useless to even _try_ to speak with them, really.”

At this, Lestrade shrugged.  “I can give it an attempt,” he offered.  “I’m in need of some ale, anyway.  Perhaps in a bit their tongues will be looser.”  He grinned.

Sherlock grunted in response, and the captain rolled his eyes before giving John a shrug and disappearing out the door.

The silence that followed left John uncomfortable, if only because of his suddenly being hyperaware from Lestrade’s comments. After a few long moments, John cleared his throat.  “I could look at your arm again,” he said, and Sherlock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Where the bandits—or whatever you want to call them—got you.”

Sherlock shrugged, but he shuffled so he was sitting on the edge of the bed.  John went to the window to dump the used water, then poured a fresh portion into the bowl. Then, he settled himself on the bed he’d claimed, just beside the prince’s, as the other man yanked his shirt over his head.

John gently unwound the bandage from Sherlock’s arm. “It seems to be healing well,” he said absently, carefully cleaning it without opening the cut again. “May scar a bit, but…”

“I’ve seen worse,” Sherlock commented, and John glanced at the man’s chest reflexively, noticing a smattering of faded scars and marks.  “I had a tendency to run away quite a bit, growing up.”  John looked up at him curiously.  “My brother chose to keep himself locked away.  Unfortunately, the same was expected of me.”  He grimaced.  “I admit I wasn’t ever particularly careful with the ways I went about it.”

“Is that why Lestrade came after you?” John asked.

“Among other reasons,” Sherlock said hesitantly, but he didn’t elaborate, so John let the subject drop.

“Why did your brother leave?” he queried instead.

Sherlock sighed.  “I admit that I may have provoked him,” he said.  “He accidentally revealed his powers, while Moriarty was present. I do not know of the exact terms, but apparently they came to an agreement; Mycroft would leave, and I would become king.”

“But then the kingdom was frozen,” John commented, and Sherlock nodded sharply.  “Then Moriarty thought up this whole— _game,_ as you called it.  And it’s a losing game, Sherlock.  He clearly has absolutely no qualms about changing the rules, whenever it strikes his fancy.”

“Ah, but that is precisely how I plan to win,” Sherlock said simply as John finally placed a new bandage around the prince’s arm. “He will make a mistake,” he went on. “There’s sure to be _something_ he did not account for, and the moment that flaw in his ever-changing plan is made known, I will be sure to exploit it and defeat him.” There was a brief pause before Sherlock, without even looking to John, said, “Now you.  Your shirt—off.”

John raised an eyebrow, attempting not to choke as heat crept up his cheeks and down his neck at the suggestion. “I—I’m sorry?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he got to his feet, looking pointedly at John.  “Your shirt,” he repeated, then sighed exasperatedly.  “Your _shoulder_ , John,” he expanded, pulling his own tunic back over his head. “You can hardly examine it yourself.”

John stared at him dumbly, then cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. He hesitantly discarded the fabric, feeling incredibly exposed as he seated himself.   He allowed himself an awkward glance at the joint, noticing the scrapes, obscured already by some awful bruising.

“If the skin isn’t broken, I have some leopard’s bane,” John told Sherlock.  He didn’t get a response, so he clamped his mouth shut and simply waited.

It took John by surprise when the wet cloth was pressed against his skin, a gentleness that was completely unexpected. Then, there was a vague ghosting of Sherlock’s fingertips over the bare skin, warm and soothing against the ache that had settled there.  After a moment he heard Sherlock moving a few of the bottles in John’s pack before a cool cream was being spread over the shoulder.  Sherlock rubbed soothing circles with his fingers over the area, until his palm finally rested flat against John’s skin, the touch lingering for a few moments before the prince snatched his hand away and placed the bottle back into John’s bag.

John replaced his tunic once Sherlock pulled away. He licked his lips reflexively. He wanted more than anything to be able to say something to Sherlock, but the man seemed so intent on closing himself off and holding everyone at an arm’s length.  Still, the man intrigued him.  He was brilliant and filled with determination, and, though John didn’t want to be presumptuous, he could definitely gather some ways that they were alike. He wondered what it would feel like to be the person that the prince finally opened up to; and then, a part of him ached at the idea that Sherlock might never allow anybody close enough.

But what Lestrade had said…

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Sherlock snapped, and John blinked a few times, looking at the prince.  He frowned.

“Well, excuse me,” he muttered. He pushed away his thoughts, deciding it wasn’t worth thinking of.  It was only a matter of days before the two parted ways again, never to see or hear from the other.  Once they met with Sherlock’s brother, it would all be finished.  And then, John took his lip between his teeth.   He jerked his head back to the prince.  “How exactly are you going to convince the king to return with us?”

Sherlock let out a breath through his nose. “I will speak to him,” he told John. “My brother only cares for his kingdom. Expressing to him the troubles that have fallen upon his subjects, he will return, if only to put an end to their suffering.”

John shifted from foot to foot, and again licked his lips.  “Yes, well,” he said, a little uncertainly, “but your brother left his kingdom. Under the threats of Moriarty, as you’ve concluded, but all the same—something must have been more important than his role as king for him to leave.”

Sherlock scoffed at this.  “And what do you propose that to be?” he asked. John looked at the prince pointedly, but Sherlock laughed drily.  “You can’t be suggesting _me_?” he went on scathingly. “No, my brother has proven time and time again that he cares little for my well-being.  If called for, he would have no qualms taking action against me.” He shook his head. “Despite what I am capable of, despite that I _know_ I am more intelligent and clever than just about any person who lives in this kingdom… well, people can not bring themselves to see past my title; that is the only reason I am deemed worthy, and my brother is no different in that way of thinking.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” John responded. “Why else would your brother allow Moriarty to manipulate him?”

“I can’t be bothered by my brother’s motives,” Sherlock said evenly.

John sighed.  “He’s your brother, Sherlock—”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” the prince snapped in reply.  “You know nothing of either of us, and you certainly cannot pretend to know the extent of our… relationship.”  He spat the last word out with distaste.

John grimaced.  “Yes, well,” he responded heatedly.  “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have a perfect relationship with my sister, either—”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Sherlock said venomously.  “Your sister, the temperamental drunkard.  It is precisely the same, isn’t it?  Gods, it astounds me that you can be such an _idiot_ , John!”  John, who had been about to respond, snapped his jaw shut, feeling the anger burning in his veins. “Do not trick yourself to believe that it is the same.”

“No,” John said bitterly.  “It isn’t.”  He straightened his shoulders and clenched his fists.  “And I’m just as foolish to entertain the idea that we are at all the same. You’re just as cold as this storm your brother created.”

Sherlock let out a huff of bitter laughter. “I never claimed to be otherwise,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes.”  John nodded.  “And you’re right, I was stupid to believe it.  Forgive me for being such an _idiot_.” He pushed past the prince, out the door to their room.  He nearly bumped into Lestrade on the stairs, but did not stop to acknowledge him. Lestrade frowned as he returned to the room, looking to the prince.

“Sire—”

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped, whipping around and glaring at the captain.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the harsh question before setting his jaw and standing straight.  “I did find a man who ventured a short ways up the mountain just earlier this day.”

The anger slipped from Sherlock’s face, replaced with the usual emotionless mask.  “What did he say?” he demanded.

“He saw a tower, your highness,” Lestrade explained. “Made of ice.  He did not approach it himself, but he says that it was not present just a few days ago, on his previous trip.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, and placed his hands right in front of his mouth, as he did when he was considering new information.

“Do you believe it to be the work of the king?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was quiet, not responding to what he thought was a ridiculous question; really, was there any other explanation or a tower of ice erupting in a few days’ time?  No, this must be the answer.  Mycroft would be there, Sherlock had no doubt about it.  The only challenge that remained now was to find this tower, to get inside, and to speak with his brother.  Perhaps Moriarty’s game would be won more easily than he anticipated.

Sherlock lowered his hands slightly and fixed his gaze on the captain.  “Did he say which direction it was in?”

* * *

Down in the tavern, the man watched as John accepted a drink from the barmaid.  He didn’t take his eyes off of him even as his companion sat beside him, two steins in hand.

“John Watson,” the second man told the first, sliding one of the steins to him.  “That’s the man they mentioned.  The one who helped fight off the first attack.  Would have been a lot less trouble if he hadn’t shown up to save the prince.” The first man hummed in response.   “So, is our part done, then?”

He nodded.  “Told the captain exactly what he told us to.”

“Good,” the other man said.

“Why don’t we just kill them now, Herling?” the first man asked.

Herling smiled wryly.  “Let’s see how the prince handles his brother first,” he said. “He’s likely to be dead by the end of the week, regardless, along with the king.  Sir Moriarty is seeing to that.  We needn’t rush things, Bork.”  He took a long drink.

“I suppose,” Bork agreed, nodding, bringing his own stein to his mouth.

“By this time tomorrow, we will have made our move,” Herling assured him.  “And I say we start with Watson.”

* * *

When morning came, the three men set off once again, rested and with fresh supplies.  John and Sherlock both seemed to be pretty intent on ignoring the argument from the night before; instead, they went on as they had done before, though perhaps John’s actions were a little more awkward, his conversation more stilted.

After all of the anger that had plagued John had dissipated, he found that he only felt a bit sad; this was, really, just more proof of the struggles the prince had faced by his lonesome.  He tried to remind himself that any anger on Sherlock’s part was not personally directed (at least, he hoped not) but just a product of his experiences.  (Though he reasoned, with a little bit of frustration, if Sherlock would let him in, he would try to help.)

As they journeyed further up the mountain, John noted the sharpness of the air, so cold that it cut against his cheeks. He had taken some cloth to cover his mouth, minimizing the areas exposed to the chill, but it only did so much to benefit him.  He was still feeling the cold seeping down to his very bones.

“There.”

John looked to Lestrade, who was pointing to a tower, which seemed as though it was built into the side of the mountain. Sherlock nodded sharply and they turned their horses slightly, for a more direct path.

By the time they were nearing the castle, it was midday.  The sun hung high in the sky, and the light that reflected from the ice made it glisten. The sight was serene and dreamlike, with the intricate fractal patterns adorning the sides of the three-story tower. John couldn’t help but admire the piece of architecture as they approached.  The fact that anyone could build something so fantastical astounded him.

Sherlock dismounted his horse, looking up at the tower with a completely blank expression.  John looked over to him, trying to discern what he might be thinking, as he gazed at his brother’s creation.  Instead, he saw as Sherlock tilted his chin upwards and squared his shoulders; it looked at though he was readying himself for battle with the way that he stood.

Finally, he turned to the other men. “I will speak to my brother alone,” he informed them.  John had expected as such, but Lestrade’s mouth formed a hard line of disapproval.

“Sire…”

“It’s only my brother,” Sherlock said in a patronizing tone.

“But are we certain of that?” Lestrade said, a little warily, and John frowned at the suggestion.

“It might be another part of Moriarty’s plot,” the man agreed, and Sherlock turned to him.

“His majesty the king could have created the tower, but he could be dead in there, and Moriarty’s men could be waiting to do the same to you, sire,” Lestrade continued.

“I was assured that my brother would not be killed.”

The words struck John with a little bit of surprise. Though he knew that it wasn’t necessarily what Sherlock had intended, the prince made it sound as though he’d ensured it was one of the conditions.  Sherlock had spent time assuring John that he cared not for anyone, let alone his brother.  This reinforced John’s original assumption, that the prince was merely putting on a show of not caring, and in reality…

“Besides,” Sherlock went on, and John jolted out of his thoughts, “I am more than capable of handling myself, even if Moriarty has changed his plans again.”

John merely sighed, looking to Lestrade, who was still frowning deeply.   “You have only a few moments before we follow you,” the captain said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t object. Instead, he tied the reigns of his horse off to a dead-looking tree, and approached the tower.

The doors in front were heavy, and it took Sherlock a bit of effort to press them open.  Once he had succeeded, he entered and pushed the door back into place. He glanced around him, but his eyes didn’t linger long to appreciate the sight before him.

“Sherlock.”  The tone was sharp, and Sherlock recognized it easily.  He turned to his brother, who was slowly stepping down a crystal staircase.  “What are you doing here?” he asked curtly.

“You know I hate stating the obvious,” Sherlock responded bluntly.

Mycroft sighed.  “I definitively expressed that you were not to come looking for me,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice even.

“I’m aware.”  Sherlock took a few steps closer to the staircase where his brother stood.

“And what?” Mycroft challenged. “You saw that as a challenge? Just return home, Sherlock. I’m letting you be, as requested. You should be obliged to do the same.”

“Things changed, Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a low voice.

The king laughed drily.  “You’re perfectly capable of taking care of whatever has _changed_ , brother mine,” he said flatly, turning around and ascending the stairs once more.

Sherlock gritted his teeth a little, knowing that his brother was attempting to dismiss him.  Instead, he hastily followed him up the stairs. “This is a matter that I am certainly not able to fix,” he said.  “You are the only one with the— _power_ —to do so.”

Mycroft turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you—”

“You froze the entire kingdom,” Sherlock snapped, cutting him off.  Mycroft stared blankly at him for a moment.  “Once you’ve determined that I am telling the truth, you’re welcome to put a stop to all of this.” Then, he grimaced, as the expression crossed his brother’s face.  “Of course,” he muttered.  “You don’t know how.” Mycroft squared his shoulders but remained silent.  “I don’t know why I expected any different.”

“And I suppose you have some master plan?” Mycroft inquired challengingly.

“It’s hardly my place,” Sherlock answered.

“You’re king now.”

“No,” Sherlock said bluntly.  “You remain king, and you will come back to fix this mess you’ve made, Mycroft.”  He paused. “Otherwise, I have no doubt Moriarty will take things into his own hands.”

“I might have guessed he was playing a part in this,” Mycroft said.  “I suppose that he sent you here?  He’s just manipulating you again, brother.  You are playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m aware,” Sherlock conceded. “But he is not the problem at the moment.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “I will not come back with you, Sherlock,” he said at last.  “I _cannot_.”

“And what of your beloved kingdom?” Sherlock asked coldly.  “Are you going to let them suffer a winter for which they are completely unprepared? They’ve little food and means of warmth. Already they are struggling, and you are the one to blame!  At the very least, you could return and put a stop to this hardship that has fallen on them.”

“I’ve already expressed to you that I have no means to do such,” Mycroft said.

“Then you can come and find a solution!” Sherlock said. He paused for a beat. “ _We_ could a solution.”

Mycroft shook his head, turning away from Sherlock again.  “The answer is still no.” He folded his arms across his chest.

“You do _not_ get to walk away from this, Mycroft,” Sherlock said vehemently. “You don’t get to lock yourself away again, and pretend that I don’t exist.”

Mycroft sighed.  “Just leave, Sherlock.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, his voice dangerously low. “Again and again you’ve proved that despite constantly using the term ‘brother’, you have little respect for me as such.  Why bother appointing me your successor when you ran away from all of your problems? Why bother having your footmen search for me when I tried to escape _you_ and the hold you would not relinquish?”  He laughed drily.  “I suppose I am just another one of your pawns, just a puppet to use however you see fit.”

Mycroft took in a deep breath through his nose.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think that I do,” Sherlock argued. “I think I understand that—what—you couldn’t control you _powers_ —” He spit the word out. “—so instead you wanted to control everyone around you, including me.  You should have just let me go when I wanted, to die on the street like a beggar—though a vagrant would be of more significance to you—”

“Enough!”  Mycroft threw his hands down.

The entire tower shook when Mycroft emitted the blast of ice in every direction, and instantly there was a sharp pain in Sherlock’s chest.  He gasped, his right hand crossing over his body and pressing against his breastbone. He could distantly hear the sound of footsteps, assumedly Lestrade and John, rushing up the stairs to find him. He glanced up to see Mycroft staring at him, expression completely void of any emotion except perhaps a bit of uncertainty.

Lestrade had his sword drawn, and frowned a little when he noticed it was only the two brothers in the room. John, meanwhile, immediately went to Sherlock.  His face was a mask of worry, and he licked his lips.  His hands were before him, hovering just a few inches from Sherlock, as though unsure whether or not he could touch him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice hushed, his words quick.  “Sherlock, what happened?”

Mycroft scowled at this informality from the stranger.  “Who are you?” he asked, and John turned to him. “And who are you to my brother?”

Sherlock gripped onto John’s arm, and the shorter man turned to him.  Sherlock was catching his breath now, straightening his stance, though John noticed the hold on his arm was tight enough for the prince’s knuckles to turn white, and possibly leave a bruise on the blond's arm.  “Don’t answer him,” he said, his voice cold.  “It does not concern him.”

John frowned at Sherlock, who at last relinquished his grasp.  The man noticed he seemed to be standing a little more steadily; he had recovered, at least momentarily, John supposed.

“I have nothing more to say,” Sherlock told his brother.  “Whether or not you return now is your own choice, as is whatever befalls the kingdom from this moment.” He turned, and John hastily followed, back down to the lower level.

Lestrade caught his arm at the bottom of the staircase, waiting a moment for Sherlock to yank open the door and exit hastily. “Take him back to the village,” he said to John.  “I’m going to have a word with the king.”  He paused for a moment. “And… should anything else happen, there’s a hovel just beyond where we first met, to the East. The man there—well, you might see it necessary to speak with him.  If things get worse, it’s important that you do.”

John frowned at the captain and the strange warning, but he nodded all the same, and went after Sherlock.  The prince had already mounted his horse; he seemed to be grimacing in pain as he rubbed at his chest.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked, climbing onto his own steed.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped. He let out a sharp breath through his nose and grasped his reigns.  “Now come.”

“We ought to return to the village,” John said, as per Lestrade’s instructions.  “The captain wishes to speak to the king, but we can wait for him there.”

Sherlock gave no response, but he turned his horse back the way they had come, following the tracks they had previously left.

* * *

By the time the reached the inn where they had stayed the night before, night was already falling.  John was struggling with himself, wanting more than anything to address the fact that the shivers racking his body had steadily increased since they left the king’s tower.  However, Sherlock determinedly ignored any time he asked if he was all right, so John was resigned to try to push it out of his mind as well. He did notice, however, that the prince seemed rather tired; and, considering he didn’t argue against the break, the man knew that something was wrong.

As they entered the tavern, John was mentally preparing himself for how he would broach the subject without outright demanding that the prince strip off his shirt so he could inspect any possible damage. He was quickly realizing that such directness might be the only successful approach when an arm grabbed him tightly around the middle, and seconds later he felt the cool sting as a steel blade was pressed snuggly against the column of his throat.

“Sherlock!” he managed to gasp out before the grip tightened, squeezing his ribs painfully.

The prince whipped around and his eyes widened in alarm, hand instantly finding the hilt of his sword.  The handful of other patrons were turning now, gasping as they saw the confrontation, backing away.  The barmaid ushered a few of them behind the counter.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”  Sherlock turned to the second man, who had his own shortsword drawn.  He nodded to Sherlock’s hand on his sword.  “Otherwise, Herling here will harm your little pet.”  He smiled wickedly.  “You wouldn’t want that to happen now, would you?”


	5. Split the Ice Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies. Real life came and I simply couldn't work on this like I wanted to. But I won't bore you with all of the details. Instead, I will be getting right to the story!

The king had retreated to the highest level of the tower; he locked himself behind the door, and even through Lestrade’s persistent pounding against the door and requests to see him, Mycroft did not emerge.

Finally, Lestrade sighed, settling himself on one of the stairs and closing his eyes.  He wouldn’t leave until the king listened to him, though—and, hopefully, saw reason.  He might have guessed that Sherlock’s attempt to speak with him would be less than successful—words between the two brothers were generally so sparse, their relationship strained over the years.

Still, despite the prince’s arguments, Lestrade was confident that Mycroft cared deeply for his brother.  He had spent years working for the man, keeping an eye on the prince and relaying everything back to him; every time that Sherlock had run off, it was Lestrade who was sent off to find him, searching some of the most wretched places, just beyond the corners of the kingdom.  Lestrade witnessed the distant pain Mycroft displayed when reporting the state Sherlock was often found in, the people he was with, and the poisons and herbs with which he experimented, and which he abused.  He had even been the one that brought Molly back to the kingdom, per Mycroft’s request, as an additional set of hands to take care of the young man, an extra set of eyes to look after him.

He knew that with just the admission of Moriarty going back on his word, the danger he had been putting Sherlock through, Mycroft could be persuaded to return and set things right.

Lestrade refused to admit to himself that he remained a little wary.  He knew just how inevitable this day had been, slowly coming for fifteen years.  He smiled wryly to himself, the truth of the past sinking in, able to make connections that he hadn’t then.  He was only sixteen at the time, working in the stables and training as a squire.  He could remember when suddenly Sherlock had fallen gravely ill, with skin like ice and shivers that wracked his small body, and how he would not wake.  The knight he attended had been the one to guard the queen and the two princes on their journey to the small, run-down home in the forest.

Now, Lestrade seemed to understand just what it was that happened.  He knew that he was making assumptions, but he was certain in them.  He knew that what happened to the small boy was by Mycroft’s hand—accidental, Lestrade had no doubt, but the fact remained.  The older brother’s insistence on keeping everyone away was founded in the guilt he undoubtedly felt; this was also the foundation for his demands that Lestrade keep Sherlock under his watch.  The man knew that Mycroft saw him as someone who could be trusted, and as someone who was present when his brother had become overtaken by sickness at such a young age, he would understand the concern and share it.  Now, however, he saw other aspects to the request.

And now, he felt confident that magic was what had been used to cure the prince when he was younger.  And with a pang of sadness, he realized that once, Sherlock must have known; he had known of the king’s powers when they were both younger, when they were close.  However, he’d been forced to forget.

When he saw Sherlock, chest heaving as he clutched it in pain, Lestrade knew without a doubt that history had been repeated.  He knew too, however, that the only chance for it to be mended, as it had been before, was to return to the hovel that he’d been taken to as a child.  He knew that he had placed his trust in the right man, though.  John had devoted himself to the prince without a second thought, even after every moment that Sherlock was his defensively abrasive self.  And even then, he was fascinated by the man’s brilliance instead of deterred by it.  Without a doubt, Lestrade knew that if he needed to pass on the task of protecting the prince, he had done so to the right person.

John Watson would protect Sherlock, and that allowed the captain to rest easily.

* * *

John struggled a little against the grip of the man—Herling—but it was to no avail.  The grip around him only tightened further, and pressure of the blade increased.  He watched warily as the other man approached Sherlock.

The prince straightened his shoulders.  Instead, he grabbed the sword with his left hand, dropping it to the floor and staring at the second man challengingly.

“That’s good,” he said with a grin, nodding.

“I am to presume that you are both under the command of Sir Moriarty, is that right?” Sherlock asked evenly.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Oh come on, Bork,” Herling huffed out.  “We’re here to kill them and be done with it.  We don’t need to try and make nice.”

Bork clenched his jaw before tightening the grip on his shortsword.  Sherlock’s eyes swept over to meet John’s.  He gave the slightest inclination of his head, just a fraction of an inch; John returned the gesture, and Sherlock noted how the man’s posture changed minutely, steeling himself for the battle that was sure to ensue.

“What do you think, Herling,” Bork continued, turning to the man holding John.  “Which one do we kill first?”

“I say we make this one watch us kill his precious prince, first,” Herling said, and to John’s delight, the pressure of the blade withdrew slightly, and Herling altered his grip the smallest amount.  It wasn’t much, yet John knew it was enough.

“I like the sound of that,” Bork responded, and with a wicked smile, he advanced on Sherlock.  “I assure you that I’m going to enjoy this quite a bit.”

The moment that Bork was close enough, Sherlock grasped the pewter stein on the abandoned table beside him and smashed it into the side of the assailant’s head with a sickening sound, quickly making a grab for the shortsword; at the same moment, John curled one hand around his fist and slammed his elbow into Herling’s ribs.  The dagger dropped from the man’s hand, and John was able to reach Sherlock’s abandoned sword on the floor.

Herling flipped the table near him onto its side, forcing John to jump back as the man grappled for a weapon.  He quickly found a ceramic jug and hurled it at John, though the smaller man ducked out of its way easily.  Herling instead grabbed for the fire iron, wielding it like a sword.

Without hesitation, Sherlock leapt over the upended table, and he was quick to block the attack from the other man.  However, Herling swung the fire iron wildly, and was able to land a blow to the prince’s arm, the hook cutting into his flesh and causing his sword to fly out of his hand.  Sherlock grunted as he grasped the wound, the searing pain in his arm taking over for a moment.  His mind immediately sought out a new course of action, but he had hesitated just a moment too long—

Then, with a gasping, gurgling sound, Herling fell to his knees, John standing over him, withdrawing the sword from the man’s stomach.  He released the man’s shoulder and let him hit the floor gracelessly.

Instantly John was pushing aside Sherlock’s hand, looking at the wound.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mumbled uselessly.  “I’ve had far worse.”

John frowned at him all the same, ripping a scrap of shirt and tying it above the cut to help slow the bleeding.  It was then that the man glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder to see the handful of patrons staring wordlessly at the two men.  Sherlock turned slightly to see them, then looked back to John.

“Is he dead?” he asked, nodding toward Herling.  John gave a curt nod.  “Good.”  He looked over to the others.  “He needs to be bound, and then he can be taken to the citadel to be properly dealt with.”

A young man pulled some rope from behind the bar and saw to Sherlock’s instructions.  The barmaid they had previously met stepped forward.

“You _are_ the prince, then?” she asked hesitantly.

“I am,” Sherlock responded.

“Your highness!” she squeaked, curtseying.

“Rise,” Sherlock commanded her shortly.  “I see no need for such actions.”

She straightened, her cheeks flushed pink.  “Sire, if there is anything that I can do—”

“A room,” John requested before the prince could deny her offer.  “Water, and yarrow if you have it.”

The woman nodded quickly.  “Of course,” she said.

Moments later, they found themselves led to a room, smaller yet more well-kept than the room from the night previously, which the older man—apparently the owner of the inn—argued they could stay in without any cost, as it was his pleasure to serve the prince and his companion.  They were followed shortly by the girl, who returned with fresh water and yarrow in one arm, and a large plate of food in the other.  She waved off John’s objections, smiling kindly at the two men before dismissing herself, closing the door behind her.

The moment that they met each other’s eyes, the two men burst into a fit of laughter.

“Stop!” John chided, leaning forward to remove the strip of cloth from Sherlock’s arm.  “Laughing like this, it’s improper.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Sherlock asked as he awkwardly removed his shirt, allowing John to look at the wound, just above the crook of his right elbow.  He sucked in a breath through his teeth as the smaller man cleaned off the blood.

“Sorry,” he murmured.  “Well, to be fair, I do suppose that he looked a bit mad wielding that fire iron the way he did.”  The corners of his lips quirked up in a smile.  Suddenly with the immediate danger gone, the only thing John seemed able to do was laugh it all off, and Sherlock seemed more than willing to do the same.

“It wasn’t a very effective weapon.”

“Except for the gash in your arm,” John responded flatly, and Sherlock guffawed.

“ _Please_ ,” he said, waving his left hand while John continued to work on his other arm.  “The only reason that it did any damage was because he was swinging it manically.  He was bound to hit something—but there was no precision.”

“Of course.”  John rolled his eyes, continuing to tend to the wound, chuckling mildly at the prince’s indignation.  After the injury was properly cleaned, yarrow applied, and bandages wrapped around it, he paused before looking up to Sherlock’s face again.  The prince was examining the linen wrap with slight disinterest, paying John no mind, and the other man’s eyes flickered over to Sherlock’s chest.  There was an angry mark there, a deep red abrasion.  Instantly his mind ran a little wild, thinking of the exact cause and the damage potentially inflicted.  Was it merely an artificial wound?  Was there damage inside, to blood or bone or organ?  Would there be scarring?  And even then, what could he do to fix such a thing, when he’d never encountered anything similar before?  He then noticed that Sherlock was now watching him, and he felt his cheeks color with slight embarrassment at just how intently he was looking at the abrasion.  He cleared his throat.  “I was just… your brother…”

“It’s unimportant,” Sherlock said.  The words were even, if not a little bitter.

John licked his lips, nodding.  “Could—I mean…”  He frowned.

“You want to ensure I haven’t been harmed,” Sherlock sighed, with a slight eye roll, as though the worry was childish.  Still, he didn’t say that he couldn’t.

John met his eyes, and hesitantly reached toward him, the slightest amount, testing his hypothesis that the prince had essentially agreed.  When Sherlock didn’t object or withdraw, John brushed his fingertips against the mark.  Instantly he pulled back, just a fraction of an inched, shocked at how cold the prince’s skin felt there.  Instead he pressed the back of his hand against the abrasion, knuckles gently resting against the icy burn.  His frown deepened.

“It doesn’t hurt?” he asked cautiously.  His voice came out hushed, and he cursed himself for sounding as such, regretfully feeling as though he was treating the prince like he was delicate or some similarly ridiculous notion; it wasn’t the case, and he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the insinuation.

“No,” the prince responded firmly, and it was then that he pulled back from the smaller man.  He moved to his bag to pull out a clean shirt, pulling it on over his head with a small struggle.

John watched him for a moment before noticing that his hand was still outstretched.  He dropped it, feeling foolish.  He then pushed himself to his feet and rummaged in his bag for a moment before stripping off his outer clothes.  He picked at the food that they’d been given before offering it to Sherlock, who declined the offer.  Instead, the prince climbed silently into bed, and John followed suit, clambering into the cot opposite him.

He desperately sought out something to say to the man, but he didn’t have the faintest idea of where to begin.  He couldn’t explain the need he felt to comfort the prince, the desire to make sure that he was well on all accounts, to heal any and every wound.  And quite honestly, he thought the sentiment would be lost on him, a man who insisted that such feelings were meaningless.

Instead, John was silent.

* * *

“You slept here.”

Lestrade jerked awake.  He shook his head a little, jostling himself and his mind although to remember exactly where he was, and the reason why.  He then blinked up at the king before stiffly getting to his feet.  He drew himself to his full height, doing his best to appear respectable before the man of royalty.

“And where is my brother?” Mycroft asked, looking at the captain expectantly.

“He’s returned to the village below,” Lestrade answered him dutifully.

“With that man?”

“John Watson,” Lestrade said, nodding.  “He has exhibited loyalty to your brother beyond anything that I’ve seen before, I must admit.  Even before he was aware of his title.  It is rather extraordinary.”

Mycroft considered the captain carefully, taking in his words, looking at the man as though expecting to find some feature betraying that he was being less than truthful.  After a moment, he seemed to find none, so he continued, “You trust my brother to be safe in his hands?”

“Unquestionably, sire,” Lestrade assured him, and Mycroft gave him a curt nod.

“Now, pray tell…”  He stepped around Lestrade, descending the crystal stairs.  His steps echoed loudly throughout the tower, resounding off of the walls of ice.  The captain hastily followed him, his armor clanking over the sound of the footsteps, and he felt a little foolish at how graceless the sound was in comparison to the other man.  “What is your reason for staying behind, and not accompanying him yourself?”  Cape sweeping behind him, he reached the landing of the flight of stairs, turning into the room connected instead of continuing downward.

“I believe that I might be able to succeed where your brother could not, your majesty,” Lestrade admitted, trotting after the king.  He forced himself to focus on the man before him.  In actuality he wanted to take his time to look at the tower that had been erected.  He wanted to take in every detail, from the patterns that looked as though they had been engraved in the walls, to the ice furnishings that appeared like glass and crystal, all glinting beautifully.  However, he recognized that it was not the time to do so.  There were far more important matters at hand.

The king huffed out a breath through his nostrils.  He crossed the spacious ballroom, the  mammoth doors at the end opening for him without the slightest touch.  They revealed a balcony overlooking the vast whiteness of the mountain, the small village only just visible nestled at its foot.  Mycroft clutched the crystal railing with uncovered hands; Lestrade only had a moment to fully register that this in itself was remarkable, as they had been gloved for as long as he could remember.  Still, he tried not to dwell on the anomaly.

“Then make your attempt,” Mycroft challenged coldly.

Lestrade took in a deep, steadying breath.  “I admit that I do not know the details of the bargains struck with Moriarty, but I am confident that he is not following the terms,” he said briskly.  “Not with you, nor with your brother, sire.”

“Clearly,” the king scoffed.

“Attempts have been made on your brother’s life,” Lestrade pressed on, and he watched as Mycroft’s grip on the rail tightened, the smooth and beautiful ice splintering like wood under his grasp.

The king did not turn to him, but it was clear from his posture and expression that every ounce of him was focused on listening to the captain.  “Explain.”

Lestrade sighed.  “At least twice,” he expounded.  “Once before I met him—this is how John became involved in the journey here.  He saved your brother during an ambush.  Then, the morning after I’d come across them, we were found.  The prince was very adamant that Moriarty was behind them.”

“And these attacks…”

“The men aimed to kill, sire,” Lestrade affirmed.  “All three of us sustained wounds.  John is knowledgeable about medicine and healing, luckily.  He treated us remarkably well, and we were able to move forward.”  He waited for the king to speak again, but he did not.  Instead, he sighed, stepping forward.  “I don’t doubt that it will happen again, your majesty,” Lestrade said, his voice soft but urgent.  “And I am certain that Moriarty won’t stop until he has succeeded.  Don’t return solely for the purpose of stopping the winter, but do so to put a stop to Moriarty.”

Mycroft ran his hands back over the railing, and Lestrade watched, mesmerized, as the ice smoothed itself back out, reforming to the flawless, seamless crystal it had been before.  “I have faith in my brother,” he said flatly.  Lestrade scoffed.  “I do,” the king repeated more adamantly.  He released the railing and turned to the captain, squaring his shoulders and tilting his chin upward.  “Should I return, then I will only be playing into Moriarty’s hand.  He will reveal me to be the monster I am, the cause for this harsh storm.  He will orchestrate my own death.  Then he will be the celebrated hero who ended the winter, and he will be welcomed as king, my brother be damned.”  He shook his head.  “If I return, then my brother’s death would only be ensured.  No, he must be the one to put a stop to Moriarty,” he said with finality.  Then, he turned and stalked back to the doors.

“You’re a coward.”  Mycroft froze at the words, but did not turn back to Lestrade.  “You think that you’re being wise by refusing to answer to Moriarty, but you’re being a coward,” Lestrade said angrily.  “Even if Sherlock finds a way to fix all of this, what of you?  You’ll still be hiding.  You aren’t saving your brother; you’re saving yourself!”

“I’m sure that he’ll be pleased to know he was right,” was Mycroft’s only response as he pushed the door open, choosing instead to walk away from the captain’s biting words.  

* * *

John awoke slowly the next morning, a sense of dread settling low in his stomach.  He hated to admit it, but in the end, the endeavors of the previous day had all led to failure.  Sherlock’s plan of convincing the king to return to the citadel had backfired.  The scuffle upon their return to the inn had been a welcome distraction then, but now, he seemed to be finally grasping that their journey had been for naught.  They had not succeeded.

He couldn’t even begin to fathom what was going on in the prince’s mind; after all, despite his cryptic declaration to his brother that anything that became of the kingdom was on his head, John knew that the younger man must simultaneously feel the weight of the situation.  They were now facing the prospect of an endless winter.

Their only hope, then, was that Lestrade might be able to finish the job.  The captain seemed adamant that he stay and try to reason with the king.  John could only pray that he would be able to succeed where they did not.

He turned to the other cot where the prince was burrowed beneath what seemed to be every blanket in room.  He rolled his eyes a little, unable to stop himself from considering the prince pampered, unable to take the cold.  But then, he frowned to himself.  Sherlock had scarcely complained previously about the coolness of the weather.  Certainly he could see the man’s discomfort, but, he thought reasonably, it was not any more so than his own.

John pushed himself out of bed and made his way to Sherlock’s side, where he moved some of the blankets away.  He found the man’s shoulder and pressed his hand there, ready to shake him awake.  Instantly, however, John snapped his hand away as though it had been burned; the prince’s skin felt colder than ice.  His frown deepened as he dropped his hand again to Sherlock’s arm, unwilling to be deterred.

“Sherlock!” he said roughly.  Again his mind ran wild.  “ _Sherlock_!”

Finally the prince stirred, and the man felt a small wave of relief, to at least know that he was still alive.  However, the moment that Sherlock sat up, John’s eyes widened in shock.

“My gods…” he mumbled.  Instantly he reached forward, though he stopped when he met Sherlock’s bemused glare.  Instead he cleared his throat.  “Sherlock, your—”  He broke off, still a little too taken aback to form the proper words.  Instead he moved over to the small table in the room.

“My _what,_ John?” Sherlock asked impatiently, but the man returned to him only a second later, shoving the silver platter that had held food the evening before into his hands.

“Your hair,” John said lamely.  The prince furrowed his brow and took the plate, glancing at his reflection.

Sherlock frowned and his other hand jumped to his hair.  What had previously been a small streak of white, at times almost unnoticeable, had grown.  It was as though a third of the black curls on his head had turned white.  He felt it curiously, but it was no different in texture or feel; the color had merely disappeared.  It was a curious anomaly, to say the least.

John watched the prince silently, licking his lips nervously.  When the prince did not speak, he took a deep breath.

“You feel as cold as ice,” John pressed on.

Sherlock scoffed at this, placing the plate aside.  “You needn’t concern yourself,” he said, climbing out of bed.

“But it _is_ concerning,” he argued.

“Why?” Sherlock asked patronizingly.  “Because my skin is cold?  I assure you that yours is much the same.”

“I don’t expect that my hair is turning white as we speak,” John retorted.

“It’s the same affliction as when I was a child,” Sherlock said dismissively, and he began to dress himself.

“I believe it to be your brother,” John said tentatively, and Sherlock froze.  “Whatever he did to you yesterday…  I believe it did more harm than you thought.”  He watched as Sherlock placed his palm over the area where he knew there was an angry red mark beneath his clothes.  He crossed the room to where the prince stood.  “See, even now you believe it to be possible.”

“And if you’re so insightful, then when do you propose I do?” Sherlock asked coldly.  He turned back to John, eyes narrowed.

John, however, didn’t back down.  “Lestrade spoke of a place not far from here,” he said.  “He mentioned it yesterday; he said ‘should anything else happen’, there would be a man there who could help.  I didn’t know what he meant at first, but I believe he meant this.”

Sherlock frowned more deeply at the revelation.  “Lestrade told you of this place?” he asked.

John nodded.  “We could at least go and see,” he offered.  “I don’t think it could do any harm.”

Sherlock dropped the hand that was pressed over his chest.  “Very well,” he said, his tone flat.  “Then where are we headed?”

“To the east of where we first met him,” John said, remembering the captain’s words.

Sherlock nodded once.  “Then we shall see what sort of remedy this man has to offer.”

* * *

Night was falling by the time John and Sherlock reached the small hut in the woods.  If John was honest with himself, he thought it rather miraculous that they were able to find the place with the little instruction they’d been given.  He was fairly sure that part of the reason they had come across it was sheer will on his own part; he knew too well that Sherlock’s health was diminishing.  He knew from the first moment that Sherlock agreed that things were worse than he already suspected; he doubted that the stubborn prince would be so easily persuaded if he wasn’t suffering quite a bit more than he let on.

He hated how quiet it was between them—just another sign, he assumed, of the prince’s sudden ailment.  Still, it made him feel uneasy.  He would rather Sherlock make some biting comment, even insulting him, if only to know that the man was himself.  Instead, the silence felt out of place.

Again he fought with the feeling deep within him; it was inexplicable, this inherent need to soothe any wound or ailment that afflicted the prince.  It was far beyond any sense of duty, more even than the sense of caring he had toward his sister.  Yet there it was, making him desperate to care for the man.

In the moonlight and the dim light coming from the hovel, John could see how pale the prince’s already pallid skin had become.  He didn’t want to let the thought cross his mind, but it seemed too that his hair only continued to lose its dark color.  John hated to think just how ghostly the prince was looking—he almost looked as though he himself was becoming made of the snow that surrounded them.  The only contrast against his skin was his rosy cheeks, which looked colored from the labor of breathing.  Even the shocking blue of his eyes could be mistaken for ice.

He tied the horses to a post just outside the run-down house before knocking on the door.  When nobody answered, John pressed the door open.  The two men entered the small room; it was crowded with cluttered shelves, covered in old leathery books and odd mystical instruments.  One wall was covered with jars of herbs and bottles of liquids that at first John thought might be medicinal, until he noticed some of the odd labels, including body parts of insects and animals that he was certain had no natural healing powers.  Against the wall opposite were strange gadgets and devices in various shapes and sizes, and he couldn’t help but wonder what purpose they had, especially a few sharp-looking tools he reckoned could have been used for more nefarious acts.  In the center of the room was a gigantic pot over a fire; the contents were bubbling and emanating a greenish-colored smoke.

The door had hardly closed behind the two when a man appeared from behind one of the shelves, startling John.  The man looked a bit disheveled and wild in appearance, his hair and beard unkempt.  His deep blue and grey robes were hanging off of his body, looking dirty and well-worn.  His lips quirked a little as though he attempted a smile when he saw the two intruders.

“The prince,” he said, inclining in a small bow, his hands clasped together in front of him, “and his companion.  I have been expecting you, of course.”  Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned at this, and John didn’t exactly blame him.  John could allow for the possibility of magic and the like, but there was something he disliked about the way the man addressed them, as though they had not chosen to come there themselves.  It was a bit unnerving and definitely a notion of which he felt skeptical.  “Though, of course, this isn’t the first time, your highness.”

“My apologies,” the prince said, though his tone was clipped and he sounded far less than apologetic, “for being unable to recall our first encounter, Mister…”

“Anderson,” the man said, bowing once more.  “But of course, you were only a child, sire.”  John raised his eyebrows at this; the man before them—Anderson—didn’t seem much older than they were, perhaps five years his senior, ten at the most, yet here he was claiming to have met Sherlock as though it was only weeks before.  “And really, we agreed it was best that you didn’t remember.”

The words sent a shiver down John’s spine; his uneasiness grew at the idea that the man had such power that he could prevent Sherlock from remembering the previous encounter to which he alluded.

“Our captain of the guard seems to remember,” Sherlock said evenly.

“Ah, yes, Gregory!” Anderson said.  “He’s well, I presume?  Yes, of course he is…”

“If you’re so well-informed,” John cut across, not wanting to delay any longer, glancing between Sherlock and the other bizarre man, “then I assume you know why we’re here?”

At this, Anderson nodded at John.  “A cure,” he said, looking back to Sherlock, “for what ails you, sire.”

John’s apprehension only grew.  He reasoned that it was one thing for Sherlock to seem omniscient; the man applied logic and reason and observation.  This was something completely different, an unearthly power, and it only filled him with malaise. “Then you know what ails him?”

Again the strange man nodded at John, then addressed the prince instead as he spoke.  “Your brother struck you, and he has left you with a frozen heart.”

Sherlock guffawed loudly at this, and even John raised his eyebrows in disbelief.  “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered.  “Could—could you, er…”

“The ice that your brother unleashed has found its way into your heart,” Anderson said, gesturing toward the prince.  Again Sherlock laughed in indignation.  “I assure you that this is a more grave matter than you take it for, my lord.”

“My _heart_ has been frozen?” Sherlock inquired.  “I’m sorry.  I may not have the most in-depth knowledge of matters of the human body, but I’ve read more than my fair share on anatomy and physiology and I am confident that had my heart indeed been frozen, I would not be alive.  Or at least, I’d be unable to speak to you, as such.”

“And that is your shortcoming,” Anderson said.  “You are knowledgeable in matters of science, yes, but not of magic.”

Sherlock scoffed.  “ _Magic_ ,” he spat.  “Very well.  Then, should I believe you, I ask for your remedy, which I assume is similarly magical.”  He outstretched his hand, as though expecting the man to hand over a vial with an antidote.  “You do have this cure, don’t you?  Or at least you can create some sort of _potion_ to tend to this?”

However, Anderson shook his head.  “I’m afraid it is not so simple, sire.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock muttered mockingly, pocketing his hand.

“No medicine or potion would thaw a frozen heart,” Anderson informed him.  “Instead, the remedy can be found in an act of true love.”

The man’s words were met with a brief silence.

“This is complete and utter nonsense,” Sherlock growled.  “You insult my intelligence enough with your talk of magic and potions, but this—!  I am not part of a tale to tell children as they fall asleep.  What ails me is a physical condition.  Begrudgingly I will admit it was inflicted by magic, and perhaps a magical antidote would have followed reason.  But I have no patience for your inane talk of _love_ as a cure.”  He turned to John.  “This was nothing but a waste of time.”  He turned and stalked out of the small hut.

John looked at the man a little apologetically before following after the prince; admittedly he was eager to leave, so he did not linger to offer any real apologies on the man’s behalf.

Sherlock was hurriedly untangling his horse’s reigns, and John instantly went to his side, taking the straps from the prince’s hands to undo them himself.  Without a word Sherlock took them once they had been extricated, mounting his steed.  Again John wished for the ability to say something to the prince, to offer him some counsel or reassurance, but he was fruitless.

Instead, they rode in silence, and John was left to think on the bizarre encounter on his own.

* * *

“I thought that you had left.”

Lestrade looked up to watch the king descending the stairs.  The tower was lit by a few torches and the glittering reflection of the moon off of the ice and snow, but it still managed to be more than enough.  Lestrade straightened his shoulders as he looked up at the king, continuing to eat the meal he had brought with him from his excursion down to the village.

He was seated at a small round table, unlike the large, long banquet tables found at the castle in the citadel.  Like everything else it was forged from ice, and he had fixed it with the small array of meats, cheeses, and bread he had procured.

He shook his head, then offered a piece of bread to the king.  The man hesitated before taking it with a small ‘thank you’.  He then seated himself across from the captain.

“I only took a brief trip down to the village,” he explained.  “I myself hadn’t eaten, and I doubted that you had the opportunity, either.”

Mycroft nodded and allowed himself to take a few small bites of food, picking at a piece of chicken and a roll.  “And what of my brother?” he asked.  “I presume that you spoke to him while you were there.”

Again Lestrade shook his head.  “They have departed already,” he explained.

“Ah.”

“I advised them to,” Lestrade continued.

At this, Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “You did?” he asked.

Lestrade sighed, dropping his food to his plate and brushing off his hands.  He took a long drink of a steaming beverage.  “I fear your brother is unwell,” he told the king matter-of-factly.

“I see,” Mycroft responded simply.

“The owner of the inn confirmed my suspicions,” Lestrade went on.  “First of all that there was another attack on your brother and John, just last evening,” he said.  “Second, that he was _not_ fine when he was struck.”

Mycroft froze, lowering the roll back to his plate.  He raised his chin, looking down his nose at Lestrade.  “What you’re implying…”

“The owner said his hair was losing its color,” Lestrade cut across.  “Just as it did before.” He sighed.  “When it first happened, I suggested to John that he take your brother to Anderson should things progress.  And it seems as though they have once again.”  Mycroft remained silent, and again Lestrade huffed out a breath.  “I might have been young—only a few years older than yourself—and I may be far less clever than you or your brother, but I can place these pieces together, sire.”

Mycroft clenched his jaw.  “You don’t understand—what happened then—”

“But if you explained, then I would try.”

Mycroft seemed to be considering him for several long moments.  Finally, he exhaled, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.  When he dropped his hand, his gaze still avoided Lestrade’s, his eyes looking tired; his entire demeanor was that of a man defeated.

“He was six years old,” Mycroft said.  “I was only thirteen, myself.  We were children.”  He glanced up at Lestrade.  “We were close, then.  He knew of my… _affliction_ —”

“ _Ability_ ,” Lestrade interrupted, and Mycroft looked at him strangely for a moment before inclining his head.

“Ability,” he conceded.  “We would make games of it.  I used it almost like a reward.  We would play our game of deductions and if he proved to be clever enough, I would make it snow.”  He made a face, as though sneering at the childhood memory, and how foolish it had been.  “That was until…”

“Until you hurt him,” Lestrade offered softly.

“It was an accident,” Mycroft told him adamantly.  “He was never meant to get hurt.”

The captain nodded quickly.  “Then he fell ill.”

Mycroft sighed.  “It was his head,” he said.  “The ice.  A streak of his hair turned white and his skin turned cold.  None of the healers or physicians my mother called upon could cure him.  But she’d heard stories of a man who lived in the woods, a man who knew of magic, who they said had magic himself.  He was our only hope.”

“Anderson.”  Mycroft nodded.  “And he saved your brother,” Lestrade finished.

“At a cost,” Mycroft admitted.  “He was to forget that I even had magic.”  He closed his eyes.  “I made the choice to cut ties altogether.  We were to consider it lucky that it was only his head.  He—he said—”  He took in a deep breath, making an expression as though a few pieces of a puzzle were suddenly sliding together, fitting to make an understandable image.  “He said that the heart is not so easily changeable, that he wouldn’t be able to cure him himself.”

Silence echoed through the cavernous room, heavy and ominous.  Lestrade weighed the meaning of the king’s words before making a decision.

“We need to get to the prince.”


	6. Beware the Frozen Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million apologies for taking so long. I got a promotion at work and it ended up taking over my life a bit. In the end, I'm not even sure I'm satisfied with it all, but I needed to finish it and I feel pretty accomplished. And now I can work on my next project without feeling guilty!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me. Much love, and hopefully you'll be interested in my next story, when I take on a longer Potterlock AU. Oh goodness. Wish me luck!

Harriet watched her brother as he stood just outside of his small bedroom.  Admittedly, she wasn’t thrilled when John had returned home with the same nobleman in tow as before.  However, she quickly saw that the man was ill and helped her brother assist him into his bed.  She warmed bricks near the fire to place them near the man’s freezing body in bed; she heated water and brought a warm wet cloth to place on his forehead. 

She had listened to her brother tell the tale—about how this man was the prince, how they’d gone to stop the winter but an accident involving magic had left him in this state. 

She moved to stand beside her brother.He didn’t move, instead continuing to watch the man who was sleeping in their home.

“I have to say, he’s much quieter this way,” Harry said.“I rather like it.”However, there was no reaction from her brother at the words.She sighed.“John, come on.Any other time that would either make you laugh or shout at me.”She frowned.“It’s concerning me.”

“ _He’s_ concerning me,” John replied, not taking his eyes off of the ailing prince.

Again Harry sighed.“You barely know him,” she reminded him.“It’s been hardly a week.”

 “But it doesn’t feel that way,” John argued, glancing at his sister exasperatedly, as though she was being the unreasonable one for not understanding.“It’s different. _He’s_ different.”

“Which is an attribute that many view as negative in regards to him,” Harry pointed out. 

“I know,” John conceded.“But I’ve never exactly been normal either.”

“At least you’re passable.”

It was John’s turn to sigh.“But I don’t want to go back to that life, Harry,” he said, his tone resting somewhere between sadness and bitterness.“He’s shown me how things _can_ be.He’s _brilliant_.He sees things that others cannot.”He smiled vaguely.“This adventure we went on was marvelous.Bandits and chases on horseback, sword fights and magic.It was all so thrilling and for the first time since father died, I felt like I was actually _alive_.”He paused, frowning again.“It pains me that he got hurt.All I want right now is to help him.”

Harriet was silent for a moment.She had known for quite some time that her younger brother was unhappy.He’d given up so much, all of his dreams, just to return to her when their father had died.Once she had firmly believed that he would be a brilliant physician, possibly good enough to even go on to work in the palace itself, under the king.Perhaps she wasn’t the prince’s biggest supporter, but if he was doing this for her brother, then she had to accept that he wasn’t as bad as she’d initially thought.

“Then help him,” she said quietly.

John shook his head.“It isn’t that simple,” he sighed.“This old sorcerer we visited, he said it can’t be undone so easily.There’s no herb or tincture, not even a magical potion that can help him.”He gave her a somber smile.“His heart can only be thawed by love.”

Harriet grimaced in turn.“That is certainly a difficult task for such a man,” she said.“And I don’t mean offense,” she added hurriedly.

“I know,” John replied.“He believes it’s untrue, just the ramblings of an old man who’s not quite there.”

“And what do you think?” she asked.

John was silent for a while.“I don’t know,” he admitted.“Reason says that he—” Hegestured to the prince.“—is right.But so much of this time with him has defied reason, despite what he might think.Maybe there’s more truth to the man’s words than we believe…”

He trailed off, and Harriet accepted that there was little else to say to her brother.She itched to say what else was on her mind, but she held her tongue.Still, she had a feeling that perhaps he would be able to save the man after all, he just couldn’t see it yet.

* * *

It was easy to acquire a horse once they reached the town at the foot of the mountain.Though Mycroft had no gold, Lestrade did.The young man had offered the horse to the king at no cost, but the king refused to accept the unnecessarily generous offer.After that they were able to swiftly make their way to Anderson’s.

  
The man was sitting outside his home, despite the snow, and he greeted the two visitors with a smile.“I expected you,” he told them as they dismounted.He pushed himself up from his chair, then walked inside, leaving the other men to follow.

Lestrade took the lead.“We’re here—”

“Because of the prince,” Anderson interrupted, nodding at both men as he shuffled around the room, tending to something brewing in a huge cast-iron pot over a fire, then moving to look at different jars on a shelf near by.“Yes, he and his companion paid me a visit.”

They waited for him to continue, but after a moment he did not, instead adding an ingredient from a vial into the pot.“Yes,” Mycroft pressed on.“I need to know what you told him.”

Anderson shifted his full attention onto the men now.He smiled at them.“You both have changed so much since we last met.”

“I can’t really say the same,” Mycroft responded sharply and impatiently.He hoped to cut the pleasantries short.Anderson ignored him.

“Gregory, you of course have changed in marvelous ways!” Anderson said happily.“You moved through the ranks graciously, becoming the king’s trusted captain of the guard.No doubt that is in part due to events that happened that night…”Lestrade didn’t respond, unsure of what to say.Anderson quickly turned to Mycroft.“You, your majesty, I have to say have changed greatly as well.Not necessarily in the best ways, but your intentions were good, of course,” he added quickly as Mycroft frowned.“I believe my warning to you was not to hide your gifts, but to learn to control them.”

“I did what was needed,” Mycroft said curtly.

Anderson shrugged.“So you believe,” he allowed.

Seeing that Mycroft was growing frustrated with the man, Lestrade stepped in again.“Good sir, it is very important that we know what you told the prince.”

“Yes, yes!” Anderson said suddenly, almost as though he’d forgotten.“The prince, yes.I told him what needed to be done to save him.”

Lestrade clenched his jaw a little.“Which was?” he pressed on.

“As you remember, it is quite simple to change one’s mind,” the man replied.“But to thaw a heart frozen such as your brother’s, an act of true love is required.”

Mycroft and Lestrade were silent for several long moments before the king spoke up.“This is ridiculous,” he murmured.

“Your brother responded similarly,” Anderson sighed.“Something you two have in common, to brush aside emotions so easily.”He shook his head.“However, you’ll notice that it is just that—emotions, feelings, _sentiment_ —” he put emphasis on the last word, meeting Mycroft’s eyes pointedly “—that is the cause for much of this.Your fear of hurting your brother led to your choice to lock yourself away for years.Your desire to keep him from death influenced you to make your deal with Moriarty.Your love—”

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft snapped.

Anderson held up his hands in show of surrender.“My apologies, sire.”

“I just want a straight answer,” the king growled.“A solution.”

“Love is the only answer,” Anderson repeated.“I have given you the solution.It is up to you and your brother to decide whether or not you wish to accept it.”

* * *

Before they left in the morning, John ensured that Sherlock was as warm as he could be for the remaining bit of the journey.He wrapped him in a heavy wool cloak.It was coarse and unembellished; not something that he would otherwise see as fit for a man of royalty, but it was a desperate time and measure.Over night Sherlock’s hair had lost even more of its color, his skin turning more icy.John knew he was running out of time, and he was quickly feeling more and more helpless.

They rode in silence once again.It made John’s heart ache.He would give anything for the conversation that had been so easy, if tense at times, just a few days ago.Somewhere he knew he must be romanticizing the whole ordeal, turning it into an ideal journey that hadn’t quite occurred.Even his shoulder was a testament to that.But if anything, he almost felt that such an injury bore more proof that it was the very thing he’d been looking for.He was a sad man, traveling the woods with no purpose.He was essentially lost, yet Sherlock had found him.The man who saved him was the very prince that many didn’t wish to be near.But now Sherlock was _his_ prince, and he would follow him wherever he may lead.There was no danger he wouldn’t face, if it was in the name of Sherlock.

Yes, his life had changed and he did not have any intention of going back.That was what, perhaps, made it so difficult, in the end.

They arrived at the castle gates, and suddenly everything was happening so quickly.John found himself explaining everything that happened to two women; one was older and matronly, the other a younger lady who revealed herself to be a healer.The latter, Molly, asked details of Sherlock’s condition, stating that she needed to know as much as possible in order to be able to properly administer care.The former, meanwhile, who Molly stated was the prince’s nursemaid, was tending to the man, trying to make him comfortable in his room, taking similar measures as he and his sister had the night before.She placed warm bricks in the bed in the hopes of raising his body temperature, and ordered other workers to get as many blankets from around the palace as possible.

And then suddenly, John found himself being dismissed.He blinked at the guard who told him he may leave, feeling as though he hadn’t heard the man quite right.Then it occurred to him— _this_ was the prince’s life.He had no place in it, after all.

He nodded slowly and began to move out of the room, no longer trusting himself to speak.

“Wait.”

The voice was weak but unmistakable as the prince’s.John’s heart leapt and he turned to the man.

“This man was promised gold upon my return to the citadel.Molly, please see that is taken care of,” he said, addressing the healer, who nodded.

And just like that, John felt even worse.He turned from the prince, unable to even meet his eyes.Instead, he followed Molly out of the bedroom with his eyes locked on the floor.

It only took a few moments for Molly to take John into a room and then present him with a box of gold coins.He opened up the small chest, revealing enough gold to easily put any problems he and his sister ever had into the past.Still, he felt no elation as he stared at the pieces of meaningless metal.

He forced himself to speak, however; he knew he ought to be polite.“Thank you,” he said softly.

The young woman smiled at him.“Thank you for returning the prince to us,” she said.

“I’m afraid that in the end I didn’t make the difference I’d hoped,” he responded.“I don’t know what can be done to help him.”

However, Molly only continued to smile, albeit a little sadly.“Perhaps, but we’ve seen him in terrible states before,” she admitted.“Personally, I believe that you made more of a difference than you think.I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him use the word ‘please’.”

John, however, didn’t smile at this.He only nodded once, feeling a twisting sensation in his gut.Perhaps he just hadn't made the difference he thought he had.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said after a moment.“I don’t even know your name.”

“John,” he responded, not looking up.“John Watson.”

“Well, thank you again, John Watson,” she said.“We owe you more than some gold for returning him to us.”

He nodded again, offering her a strained smile before he left.He still felt as though he could have done far more.

* * *

“I’m very disappointed in you, Bork.”

The man jerked his head up, heart hammering as he looked at the face of none other than James Moriarty, obstructed by the bars that he was behind.“Sire!” he said, scrambling up to press his own face against the bars. “I—”

“Word was sent to me about what happened,” he said smoothly.“You both failed to kill the prince, and he is now _safe_ at home in his bed, while Herling is dead and _you_ are set to rot in here.”

“It was the man with him, the one that we told you about,” Bork told the man quickly.

“Yes, and I will deal with him,” Moriarty agreed.“He won’t be a problem much longer.Still, something remains that I must handle on my own.”

“Sire?”

“You,” Moriarty said simply.Bork’s eyes widened, and he suddenly realized how silent the cells were.He glanced past the man, seeing two guards collapsed on the floor.In the dimly lit dungeons he couldn’t determine whether or not they were dead, but he still knew that didn’t bode well.He swallowed tightly as he met Moriarty’s eyes again.“Well, surely you didn’t think that I could let you live,” he said, mouth twisting into a horrible smile.And with that, Bork felt the sharp pain in his stomach, looking down to see the baselard that Moriarty had just thrust into him.He watched as Moriarty twisted the blade, and he let out a gurgling gasp.Moriarty yanked the dagger back out, wiping it on Bork’s shirt before pushing him backward.The man lost his balance and collapsed on the floor, eyes glossing over as the blood flowed from the wound. 

* * *

John reached his home not long after the sun had set.Luckily, the house was quiet; Harry must already have gone to bed.He eased himself into a chair, setting the box of gold on top of the table.He glared at it for a moment before pushing it away with a huff.

He rested his head in his hand.How could he forget everything that had happened?How could he forget Sherlock?He wasn’t sure, but he knew that it was necessary.Now he was meant to return to his old life, just as Sherlock was to return to his.Sherlock— _the prince,_ he reminded himself.He felt so foolish.What had he honestly expected might come of everything?

He must have drifted off to sleep; it felt like only moments later he was awoken by early sunlight filtering through their windows and his sister’s voice.

“John?”

He straightened up, feeling stiff after sleeping at the table.He blinked up at Harriet.

“I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” she admitted hesitantly.

He shrugged half-heartedly.“I completed my part, and was paid as such.”

At his words, she took it as an indication that she could open the small wooden chest he left on the table.She gasped as she did.“Good gods, John!” she exclaimed, marveling at the amount of gold.“This… this could change everything for us.”

She looked up at her brother.He was gazing out the window listlessly.She couldn’t help but feel frustrated with him, but she closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“Why are you here, John?” she asked him quietly.She took the seat across from him, and he turned his head to her, frowning.“I know you don’t wish to be,” she added.

“I’m here because you’re my sister, Harriet,” he said simply.

She shook her head.“I know that I may not always act it, but I _can_ take care of myself, brother,” she said.“I know that I hardly make things easy for you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that we’re kin,” he argued.

She was quiet for a moment, chewing on her lip thoughtfully.She closed her eyes.“He’s right, you know,” she said, looking back to her brother.“The things that he said about me.Perhaps it was out of line and perhaps he was abrasive, but he wasn’t wrong.So I took to heart what he said.I haven’t been drinking.I’ve been working.I’ve been working on a lot of things, not just the smithing.”She smiled gently.“You are free to move on from me, brother.I could see that he gave you life that was not previously there.”She paused.“I find it preferable that I don’t lose you in that way.If it means you leave our town, then so be it.”

“He has no need for me,” John bit out.

“That’s a lie,” she argued.“From what you’ve said and what I’ve seen, now is the precise moment that he needs you.”He looked at her questioningly.“You can’t even see it, can you?”She chuckled a bit sadly.“You _love_ him, brother mine.And don’t protest about romantic feelings or not—though I’m certain those are there as well, it is not arguable that you love him.You were willing to give him everything before you knew he was royalty, and that is not something that many—myself included—can say even knowing that he _is_ the prince.He is smart and courageous, albeit tactless.He is admired, mostly, by his people, but perhaps not loved.You, however, I am certain, love the prince very much.”

John was silent at her words, unable to process most of them.He blinked at her in return, feeling shocked at her sudden revelation.

“You could be the one to save him, John,” she said quietly.“Maybe he doesn’t understand love, but without a doubt you always have.Give him the act of love that can save him.”

* * *

Sherlock awoke to his room being eerily still.The quiet he had grown used to, as Molly and Mistress Hudson and anyone else who entered his room had all taken to using hushed tones and silent glances to communicate, as though Sherlock were on his death bed.He reasoned that it were possible he might be, the way that the chill had only continued to permeate deeper through his body.It felt as though his bones were now made of ice, cold and aching, and nothing could stop his constant shivering, his body’s desperate attempt to raise its temperature.

However, the stillness he had not quite expected.Caretakers had been constantly in and our of his room, offering suggestions and plans at getting him better and keeping him warm.Suddenly this was not the case, and he had a few guesses as to what the cause might have been.

Without a second thought, Sherlock threw off the blankets that had made a cocoon around him.The fire was still crackling in the fireplace, and a warm brick was beside him, so he knew that he’d been tended to recently.Yet the sudden stillness was still very wrong.

He gathered up the rough woolen cloak that was beside his bed, the same one that John had enveloped him in before they had left the previous day.Now the early morning light was beginning to filter its way through his window.He knew that soon the room would be warming up again with the sun’s light, and that would make it a bit more comfortable, even if the amount really was infinitesimal.For now, though, he had to use anything that he could, so he took the cloak and wrapped it tightly around his body and then left his room.

Outside his door, two guards were in a crumpled heap on the floor.Sherlock noticed the rise and fall of their breathing; they weren’t dead, he noted, but definitely incapacitated.And as the corridor held the same unsettling stillness, he could only assume that anyone else he encountered within the castle would be in the same state.

He made his way to the drawing room slowly, the coldness in his joints making them nearly impossible to move.The stiffness in his extremities made him wonder if frostbite had begun to set in, as he expected it might.But he ignored the sensation and pushed on, making his way through the unmoving castle.

He was unsurprised by the man sitting in the drawing room, angled away from him so that he was facing the window as the sun inched higher.The prince inhaled through his nose and forced his spine straight, walking as nobly as he could, even despite the rough woolen cloak around him.Out of the corner of his eye he saw himself in the mirror; he still managed to look noble despite the absolute loss of color in his hair, and the way that his skin had begun to take on a bluish hue.Even the commoner’s coat didn’t diminish his regal appearance.So he moved forward, paying no attention to the pain and coldness that he felt, only intent on keeping his appearance in front of the man.

He took a seat beside the man, who immediately turned to him.

“I must say, sire, that I had heard of the toll the journey took on you, but it is still a very _intriguing_ sight,” James Moriarty stated.“Very interesting indeed.”Sherlock didn’t respond, and Moriarty waved to the tea he had prepared.“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you are worried of.But I do hope that you’d think just a _little_ more highly of me than that.”

“Of course,” Sherlock responded drily as he picked up the tea cup.It was hot, and it felt soothing on his hands though he reasoned it would otherwise burn.He ignored the idea and sipped at the liquid, reveling in the warmth that spread down his throat, even if the sensation disappeared again quickly.

“I have to admit that I am rather disappointed,” Moriarty said after a few moments.“I rather hoped by now that the winter would be over.”He looked at Sherlock.“I did not honestly believe you would fail your mission.”

“You gave me a nearly impossible task that I was _intended_ to fail,” Sherlock retorted.“Your real surprise is that I still remain alive.Herling and Bork were the ones who failed you.”

“Ah, yes,” Moriarty sighed.“Though your companion took care of one, and I took care of the other.So really, they are inconsequential now.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, merely taking a drink of his tea instead.He was honestly not at all surprised at Moriarty’s admission.

“Still,” the criminal said, “I hardly thought you would return without succeeding.”

Sherlock scoffed at this.“My ten days are not up,” he snapped.

Moriarty chuckled.“So you still believe that you can pull through?” he asked.“And I don’t merely mean that your brother will suddenly show up and set things right, so that our deal might be settled, but you believe that in the end, you will manage to survive?”Sherlock didn’t say anything, unwilling to entertain the madman any longer.“I was told of your condition, your highness,” he continued on, despite Sherlock’s silence.“Yes, I know that you have been inflicted with a— _ah—frozen heart_ , my lord.”Again he laughed softly at the idea.

“I have no need to worry, as I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one,” Sherlock responded coolly.

“We both know that isn’t true,” Moriarty said with a smile.“But your denial of that fact, well… in the end, that’s probably what will kill you, I have to say.”He sipped his own tea.“And really, this is all working out much better than I planned.You see, I thought that I would have to kill you myself.When my men failed me, I thought that I would have to get my hands dirty, which I really hate to do when it is not necessary.But this is working out so much better.Now you will die, and it will be by the hand of your brother.And then I will be able to step in and kill him—by doing so, avenging the poor prince and slaughtering the monster who turned on his people and inflicted this winter.I’ll bring back summer, and the people will reward me by making me their king.”He laughed again to himself.“Really, this could not have gone any better.”

“You are wrong,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, am I?” Moriarty asked, sounding delighted at the prince’s words.

“My brother might be an idiot, but I promise you that he will not fall for your tricks again,” he assured the man.“My death will not be the factor that decides your victory; instead, my brother will come to his senses.He will dispose of you and set things right.”

Moriarty’s laughter rang through the room, cold and loud.“You sound like a child,” he told the prince.“And an ignorant one at that.No,” he sighed, shaking his head as he got to his feet.“I _am_ right, and you will see soon.I wager that the king is even on his way now, to try and see his poor ailing brother before he dies.And really, that will only make things even easier for me.All I have to do is wait.”

* * *

From the time that they had left Anderson’s, Mycroft had been silent.Though Lestrade knew that the man was just as stubborn as his brother—if not more so—he was able to convince him more easily to take breaks and rest.The captain of the guard attributed this mainly to the fact that the king was refusing to talk; if he was willing to argue, Lestrade reasoned that he definitely would have.Instead, however, the man refused to utter a single word, and thus was amendable to suggestions.

He seemed incensed by the man and his words.Even Lestrade had admittedly been rather annoyed, though he hadn’t been at the receiving end of the man’s critical advice.Still, he recognized that, although he definitely seemed to be off his rocker, the man had made several points.Perhaps they’d been presented in the wrong manner; perhaps they were merely not what Mycroft wanted to hear.But still, Lestrade couldn’t disagree with Anderson.

Mycroft and Sherlock brushed aside emotions so easily; it had become second nature for them to pretend that instead they didn’t feel at all.But the captain knew that was preposterous.He knew that they felt very deeply, they just hid it.

Lestrade could remember every time that he acted as a messenger or a spy for Mycroft, watching out for the man’s younger brother.It was always out of concern, out of fear, out of love.The king could deny it if he wished, but Lestrade knew that he cared for the younger man.Of course he did.Ever since the accident from when they were young, Mycroft had pretended that his insides reflected his abilities—that he was just as cold internally as the magic he could produce.The king thought it easier that way.But really, had it been?Hadn’t it only caused more hurt?

Because Sherlock definitely wouldn’t admit it, but he had been hurt.He had been so young when his brother seemed to change without warning.And instead, he had been left on the outside, not knowing anything that was happening.His brother told him not to care.And he had tried.He always gave off the air that he had succeeded.But Lestrade knew that wasn’t the case, still.

Lestrade had always seen the way the prince could act with others; he saw the affection he gave to his nursemaid and he saw the kindness he often offered Molly.Even he had been surprised when he’d first come across the prince and John Watson, though.

It was as though with that man, everything in the prince had changed.Or, maybe Lestrade reasoned, it didn’t at all.And maybe that was the marvelous part.John Watson was a simple man—clever and skilled, but he wasn’t nobility and he wasn’t wealthy or otherwise ‘important’.Yet he was the man who cared about Sherlock.He met the man and thought he was brilliant, with no sense of irony or disapproval.He only admired Sherlock for the things that he saw and could determine from his observations.

And Sherlock had hidden the fact that he was the prince.He had no desire for the other man to know that he was royalty.He had met someone who showed him respect and admiration for nothing related to his title—and in the past, that had often been the only reason many offered the prince similar dignity or appreciation.Instead, he seemed horrified when Lestrade had unknowingly revealed the fact.

But Sherlock had insisted that it change nothing between them.Lestrade marveled at the way that Sherlock demanded the man call him by his name, and the way that the two interacted, so comfortable, even as they bickered.Part of him wondered if, in reality, they were both mad.And maybe, to a point, it was true.But no matter what way he looked at it, he simply knew that these two were a duo that were meant to play a part for each other, no matter what the extent might be.

What he really hoped was that perhaps the two men were not daft enough to recognize that fact.Because yes, Lestrade _truly_ believed now that John Watson could save Sherlock.He didn’t have a doubt about the possibility.He only hoped that they could see it too, and perhaps Sherlock was in a better state than when he’d last seen him.

But if Anderson’s warning was anything to go by, it might have only been wishful thinking on Lestrade’s part…

“Your thinking is very nearly audible.”

Lestrade was slightly startled by the king’s sudden words, and he looked over to him for a moment before training his eyes back ahead.“I was merely considering Anderson’s words,” he said honestly.

Mycroft grunted his annoyance at even just the man’s name.“He’s completely delusional,” the king grumbled.

Lestrade bit his cheek for a moment, trying not to tell the man off for being so foolish.But after fighting the urge for a few minutes, he wondered why he shouldn’t.Already he’d given the king a dose of reality, even when it was not asked for and probably not wanted.It had gotten them this far.Perhaps he needed to do it again.

“I don’t believe so,” he said.“At least, not completely.”Mycroft scowled at this, but he didn’t let that deter him.“I mean, suppose that he is right, that the prince might only be cured through an ‘act of true love’, but he brushed aside the suggestion so easily.That in itself could be what hurts the prince the most.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, as he pulled his horse to a stop.Lestrade pulled his horses’s reins as well, forcing the steed to pause in its movements. “And how do you reason that?” Mycroft asked at last.

“A man who does not readily believe in love will not accept it, even if it is present,” Lestrade said with a shrug.

“It’s a ridiculous concept,” Mycroft argued.

“So much of this is ridiculous!” Lestrade snapped, and the king was taken aback.“Your fear of hurting him—you let it rule over so much of you that, in the end, it _did_ hurt him.Fatally even.You spent so much time and effort in an attempt to save him and protect him by keeping him in the dark, that in the end, that’s what truly harmed him.Now, he is suffering because of your choices and you’re still refusing to believe it!”

“Don’t speak to me that way!”

“I will speak how I like!”

“I am the _king—_ ” 

“Then perhaps you ought to act like it!”Lestrade took a deep, steadying breath.“ _Sire,”_ he added, almost as an afterthought. He gave his horse a tap, and he began moving again.Within a few moments, Mycroft was beside him again.

“I have made many… mistakes,” the king admitted quietly after several long moments.“I am looking to set them right, now.”He swallowed.“I have been for some time.But admittedly, I do not seem to be going about it correctly.”

“Attempting to give up the crown was never the right thing to do,” Lestrade told him evenly.“But I think that you even just admitted that.”

Mycroft grimaced.“It seemed—”

“It seemed like the answer, sire, I know,” Lestrade sighed.“But even your brother thought it was foolish, did he not?”

“I was a fool for listening to anything from Moriarty,” Mycroft admitted.

“You were afraid.”

“…Yes.”

Lestrade allowed himself a small smile at the king, thankful that at least he seemed to be reasonable once again.

“I’m still uncertain of what I can even do once we are back in the citadel,” Mycroft said after a few more moments.They were nearing the walls now, and Lestrade could understand his apprehension.

“You fix it,” he said simply.

Mycroft nodded.“I just hope I can manage it.”

* * *

John Watson was a man without a plan.

Once his sister had made him see sense, he was instantly on his horse and riding as swiftly as possible back to the city.He had grabbed no supplies, only taking his cloak and his sword in case he found trouble, as he seemed to when Sherlock was involved.

He had no idea what would happen when he reached the citadel walls.He did not know if the castle staff would recognize him, or if they’d merely think he was insane when he reached them and demanded to see the prince.And even then, would that be enough?Would returning to Sherlock be all that he needed to prove to him what he meant, or would he have to go further?And even then, what would break the spell?A kiss?The words themselves?Perhaps he would need to take down Moriarty himself?

His mind ran wild with possibilities, and he had never felt so uncertain in his life.He wasn’t even sure that he really was capable of saving the prince.But his sister was right, wasn’t she?The ache and emptiness he had felt at leaving him, being unable to help him—surely that spoke volumes about just what it was that he felt.If only he knew the right answer, the perfect thing to do that would surely save the prince and break the spell.

But he didn’t know, and he swallowed tightly as he raced back to the castle.He would have to think of something when the time came.All he knew was that time was quickly slipping away from them, and he had to return to Sherlock before it was too late.

* * *

Lestrade didn’t say anything when the winds picked up and it began to snow again, just as they reached the castle gates.He could practically feel the anxiety and anger still radiating from the king, his determination to fix things set on his face.If he had even noticed that the bad weather had begun again, he didn’t say anything to the captain.

They dismounted their horses, and Lestrade took the reins from the king.“I want you to find my brother,” he ordered the captain.“Ensure that he is safe.”

Lestrade nodded as the king turned to the castle steps.“Wait!” he called suddenly, frowning.“Where will you be going, sire?”

Mycroft turned to him for only a moment before running up the steps and pushing his way into the castle.Lestrade swore, yanking on the reins and leading the horses to the stables.He hurriedly tied them to posts before running after the king.When he reached the inside of the castle, however, he noticed how perfectly still it was.Immediately he felt uneasy.He only prayed that they weren’t too late.

He ran from room to room, seeking out the prince.He checked his chambers and his study, the library, and anywhere he thought that Sherlock might be.He noticed the various fallen bodies of his men, taking time to examine each of them and relief sweeping through him when he noticed that they were still alive.Still, he felt the unease.He knew that Moriarty must have done this—and, though he hoped he was wrong, that Moriarty must still be in the castle.If that was the case, then it was likely they were too late anyway, and the criminal had done away with the prince altogether.

Lestrade burst through the doors of the drawing room.He instantly let out a sigh of relief when he noticed the prince, huddled in a coarse wool cloak, beside a roaring fire.However, his heart sank as he took in the man’s appearance—from his white hair to his sickly skin.The prince turned to him, and he swore again.

“Where’s John?” he demanded from the prince.

The younger man only looked confused at this.“J-John?” he asked curiously.

“Yes,” Lestrade snapped as he crossed the room.“John Watson, who swore he’d see to you.”

“He d-did as you asked and returned me to the c-castle,” Sherlock told him, his teeth chattering slightly, shivers wracking his entire body.

“God dammit all!” Lestrade grumbled.“He’s gone?”Sherlock nodded.“I need to find him,” the captain mumbled, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Why?” he demanded petulantly.

The older man rolled his eyes, no patience for the prince’s determination to constantly be difficult.“You might need more than an act of love right now,” he murmured.“You might need a bloody _miracle_.”

“W-where’s my brother?” Sherlock asked, ignoring his comment.

“Looking for Moriarty, I’m fairly certain,” Lestrade sighed.“Stay here, sire,” he ordered.“I promised to make sure you’re safe, but—”He broke off mid-sentence.He knew that if he explained that he somehow needed to find John Watson and convince him to give Sherlock an act of true love, the prince would think he was mad.He had a hard time believing that he wasn’t, himself, as he tried to desperately come up with a plan.Maybe if he was lucky the man wouldn’t be to far, maybe there would still be time.

He turned, leaving the room from the way he came.He swiftly made his way out the doors of the castle.When he reached the bottom of the steps, his heart nearly leapt out of his chest in relief; even through the snow, he could see that riding through the gates was none other than John Watson.

He ran to the man, grabbing his horse’s reins as he swiftly dismounted.He didn’t waste time going to the stables, instead pulling the horse over to the fence where he could tie him off.

“I need to get to Sherlock—” John panted, his cheeks red from the cold and wind.“I—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Lestrade swiftly cut across, thankful that it seemed as though John had come to his own similar revelation.“Come on, I left him in the drawing room.”

The man followed without hesitation.The castle was still dead silent—the only sound that could be heard was the echoing of their footsteps as they ran through the corridors.John didn’t comment on the lack of staff or guards, and the captain was grateful he didn’t have to waste time with explanation of at least what his suspicions were.Thankfully it seemed as though John’s current intent was solely on getting to Sherlock.

Lestrade shouldered the door to the library open, but where Sherlock had been sitting was now only the cloak.

“Dammit!” Lestrade swore, picking up the cloak and then throwing it back onto the floor.“That bloody—that fool, he—”He let out an aggravated breath, turning back to a concerned-looking John in the doorway.He marched over to him, shoulders squared.“Moriarty’s here.The king went after him, and now—now I think—”

John didn’t hesitate.“We’ll split up,” he told the captain.“If you find them, then—”

“I’ll find you,” he assured the man.John nodded, and took off down the corridor.Lestrade went the opposite way, pushing open doors and looking for the two brothers.He only hoped that there was still some small amount of time.

* * *

Mycroft instantly knew where he would find Moriarty—the same place where Sherlock had found him that first night.He walked calmly and with purpose.He was still not certain of a plan, but different ideas crossed his mind.He wasn’t sure that any of them would really work, but he knew that in the end, he still had to confront the criminal.That was the only way he could come even close to fixing anything.

He pushed through the doors and saw James Moriarty sitting in his throne, waiting.He smiled at the king as he entered.

“Your majesty, I anticipated your return,” he said, standing up and giving the king a sweeping bow.“I was almost afraid that your brother would disappoint me.”

“We are both finished with your games, Moriarty,” he bit out coldly.

“Almost,” the man allowed.“But not just yet.”

“I will not be making any more bargains with you,” he snapped.“I will not be made a fool of.”

“Ah, I don’t wish to belittle you or your crown any more, your majesty,” Moriarty told him.“I assure you of that.”

“My apologies if you find that I simply do not believe you.”

“You don’t need to,” Moriarty allowed, holding his hands up in a mock surrender.“But I am telling the truth.I am not looking for any more deals or games.Honestly, it would not even matter.”He grinned wickedly.“You see, your majesty, I have already won.”Mycroft frowned at this.“Yes, you simply don’t yet know it.But I have.”

“And what makes you so certain?” Mycroft asked cautiously as he walked toward the man.He suddenly wished that he had more of a weapon than the sword at his side, which was really far more ceremonial than meant to actually inflict harm.Perhaps if he could concentrate, he could manage to channel his magic as a weapon.But would he really be able to, when he hadn’t found a way to control it before, only hide it?

Moriarty’s grin widened.“Why, your majesty,” he said sweetly, “your brother is dead.”

With those words, it felt as though Mycroft’s own heart had stopped.But the man was malicious.Surely he couldn’t trust him.“You’re lying,” he said, but he sounded more certain of the fact than he actually was.

Moriarty laughed at this.“I wish I was,” he said.“Only this morning I shared tea with him, and he was taking some of his last breaths then.His hair was pure white.His skin tinged with blue.He tried to act so strong, but he was shaking uncontrollably.”He sighed.“It was quite sad really, how he was freezing from the inside.I wish that I could have taken the credit, but that all belongs to you.His own brother.”He grinned.“The king, a murderer.”

“No,” Mycroft said firmly.His hand reached for the hilt of his sword.He refused to believe what he was saying.

“But it’s true,” he said.“And really, you killed him long before.Once so close, but you told him how unwise it is to care, to _love_.And well, that was the one thing that could have saved him, was it not?But you convinced him love only _hurts_ , that it is hardly even _real_.So how did you expect him to be saved?”

“ _Stop_ ,” the king demanded, though it came out hoarsely.He felt his chest tightening with guilt.

“I will _stop_ ,” Moriarty told him furiously, “when you are dead like your brother, and I have the throne.”

“It is not yours to take.”

“But it is!” Moriarty said, his tone suddenly back to manic delight.“You see, I am going to kill you.Then, the throne will be rightfully mine, as I rid the kingdom of a murderous monster.I will be the _hero.”_

“Others know the truth,” Mycroft told him.“Lestrade, the other guards—Mistress Hudson and the healer—they know what you are.”

“If necessary, they can be taken care of as well,” Moriarty told him evenly.“Anyone who fights can be easily disposed of.But it can be easier than that.You can surrender.You can save them by sacrificing yourself.”He pulled his sword from its sheath.“Die willingly, and I think I can be convinced to spare them.”

Mycroft only considered it for a moment—a very brief second.He quickly decided against it, knowing that Moriarty was not a man of his word.Already, he had proven again and again that he could not be trusted, even when he was seemingly getting his way.No, that would not be an option that was plausible.Instead, Mycroft tightened his grip on his own sword, ready to unsheathe it as well.

The doors just then banged open.

“Don’t!”

Mycroft whipped around at the sound of the voice—weak, but unmistakably his brother’s.He felt the relief wash over him as he looked at the young man, still alive, albeit just barely.He noticed as his brother began to move forward swiftly, eyes widened, glancing just past Mycroft.The king turned back to Moriarty, just in time to see him with his sword, ready to strike.His mind stopped for a moment, and though he quickly drew his sword in response, attempting to simultaneously side-step out of the way of the attack, he still knew it was too late.He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he moved, pushing his arm up in front of his face to shield himself.

However, the blow didn’t come.

Instead, there was a _clang_ and a shout of pain and a _crash_.

Mycroft’s eyes flew open as he saw his brother standing in front of him, arm out as though to shield the king; just beyond him was Moriarty in a crumpled heap where the floor and wall met, unconscious, his sword fallen from his hand.Mycroft swept around to look at Sherlock, who now seemed to be made out of solid ice.He hesitantly reached out to touch the young man’s cheek, but quickly snatched his hand back.

The doors were once again forced open loudly, and though Mycroft didn’t look over to them, he knew who it was.Lestrade slowly stepped through the opening, swallowing tightly.Only seconds later, another man rushed in—the king faintly recognized him as John.He pushed past the captain, and Mycroft could see the look of horror and disbelief on his face as he took in Sherlock’s state.

“It’s too late,” John murmured.“ _I’m_ too late.”He shook his head, clenching his eyes shut.Lestrade walked to him, placing a hand on his shoulder comfortingly.

Mycroft couldn’t bear it anymore and squeezed his eyes shut as well.All he could think of was the hundreds of things that he could have done differently, all of the things that could have kept them from getting to this point—

When suddenly, in the silence of the room, he heard a tiny exhale, just a small release of breath.His heart hammered as he desperately thought that _no_ , it simply _couldn’t be_ —

He looked back to Sherlock to see the color come flooding back to him, starting with he color in his cheeks and then flowing to every inch of his body, even back to every strand of hair.The prince took a couple of stammering, shuddering breaths before his eyes fluttered open, instantly meeting his brother’s.

The two men stared at each other for what felt like an eternity without saying a word; and, Mycroft reasoned, perhaps they did not need to.If everything that had been said was true, and if what had just transpired was anything to go by, that was all proof enough for him.

Suddenly John was laughing, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock in delight.The prince looked mildly taken aback, looking briefly to Mycroft, who merely shrugged.After a moment’s thought, however, Sherlock returned the embrace, though it was a little awkward at first.The king couldn’t resist the slight smile that graced his lips.

There was a low grunt from the end of the room, and Mycroft turned to see Moriarty beginning to stir.A beat later, however, Lestrade was restraining the criminal.The king didn’t hesitate to help him, sending him to the dungeon once more—though this time, he had different intentions for what fate would later await him.

It was not long before the castle staff began to awake.John tended to them the best that he could, and once Molly and Mistress Hudson were seen to, they did their best to assist, too.Instantly Sherlock began spouting theories about sleeping draughts that might have been slipped into the water supply, something that Moriarty might have used to incapacitate everyone at once.

The effect was not instantaneous—however, when the men ventured outside, it was still very obvious that the weather had changed.Though the snow was still on the ground, it was swiftly melting, and the air felt infinitely warmer.

“It is merely a start,” Mycroft had admitted.And though he had been directly addressing the weather, Lestrade felt as though he was promising much more than that.

John stayed back a little bit from the three men, as though unsure of what he should do.He had fully intended to be the one to save the prince, but in the end, it hadn’t been necessary.Now, he wasn’t even certain of where he stood, or whether the prince wanted him to remain.Lestrade could see the man’s uncertainty, and he nudged the prince, then nodded in the man’s direction.It was then that Sherlock approached the man. 

“How do you feel about the violin?” he asked John, and the man looked at him questioningly.

“I’m sorry?” he questioned.

“I play the violin when I think, and often times I do not speak for hours on end,” he explained.“Would that bother you?”

“Why—”

“And you’ll need a position here in the citadel,” Sherlock mused.“I assume that you’d be willing to train with our court physician.He is growing rather old, and the position could easily be yours in a year’s time at most.”

“Sherlock,” John said slowly, “what are you talking about?”

“Well, I assume by your daring attempt at rescue that you wish to court me,” the prince said, and John’s cheeks heated at the comment.“Should that be the case, you ought to know some of my worst habits, and really you can’t still be living with your sister.The distance would not really be preferable.”

John opened and closed his mouth several times, as though to object, before snapping his jaw shut and clearing his throat.“Yes, very well,” he said, squaring his shoulders.“Assuming that… assuming that is all right with you, then?”

“I believe I can be amendable,” Sherlock smiled.“And I’m inclined to believe that my brother would be much more open to the idea of my exploring the kingdom should I have a… companion.”

“You mean someone to look after you?” John quipped.

Sherlock looked mock-offended.“And why would I need to be looked after?”

“Because you are a right idiot,” John told him.

Sherlock frowned for a moment before he saw that the other man was grinning.In turn, he allowed himself a small smile.“As long as you do not mind the trouble, Master Watson,” he responded.“We could explore the corners of the kingdom.Imagine what we could meet—the creatures, the bandits, the criminals… It could be dangerous.”

“It could be,” John said seriously.

“I expect you have rather had your fill of danger this past week,” Sherlock commented.

The man nodded.“Indeed I have.”

Sherlock smiled at this expectantly.“Then you’ll join me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the man.

John laughed, heart fluttering at the thought of the promise of more adventure, completely content with what he was getting himself into.“Gods, yes.”


End file.
